


But not everyone prefers the light

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Aromantic Matthew Brown, Cannibalism, Dating, Developing Relationship, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Happy Ending, Flirting, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a demon, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Matthew is a demon, Mental Instability, Minor Matthew Brown/Hannibal Lecter, Murder, Obsession, Roleplay Logs, Season/Series 02, Slow Build, Unhealthy Relationships, Will has a Crush, altered timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 98,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: Will Graham is an interesting man, after all. His interests seem to swarm gently around darker waters, leaving the light of the shallows for those less adventurous. It's been a long time since Hannibal has found a human with such promise.It's a sensation that only grows. Hannibal is expecting everything from Will detailing another recent scene to a further extrapolation of why this muralist has snared his attention so cleanly. What he's not expecting is for Will's path to turn so sharply down a road that Hannibal hasn't traveled in a great many years.[Supernatural-ish AU with some canon events still. Set in season 2. Hannibal is a powerful demon who likes offering deals for souls. Will is his patient who is dealing with his own darkness/spiritual sensitivity. Matthew is a friend from Hannibal’s past…]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This literally spawned from me trying to come up with some idea of Hannibal being a panther/cat or something and then turned into demon!Hannibal which is much, much better. This is not as cheesy as the tags may make it out to be. Alternating posts/PoV format, sry not sry, this is written as a roleplay that we've decided to share.
> 
> Some canon events/murders do transpire as they had in season 1, but Will meets Hannibal later (start of season 2). 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format. At times we can be pretentious, repetitive and annoyingly wordy, but we're not going to change so please forgo any "constructive criticism" regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories.
> 
> Matthew/Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by ReallyMissCoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathew can see the draw of being a psychiatrist, of sitting across from someone and getting them to spill their guts and dirty little secrets. Demons had an intrinsic joy from messing around with humans, so why not do it professionally and get paid? Such a job is considered to be esteemed and noble and Matthew knows how much Hannibal loves _helping_. (He'd been "helped," down on his luck, floundering and Hannibal had been there, a smile on his face that held no warmth and Hannibal had offered him a strong, capable hand...)

Up top is more fun than Hell, but Baltimore sure sucks. He doesn't know why Hannibal is still hanging around this dump. Granted, Matthew Brown has a lot of good memories of this particular area (and so does Hannibal). But there's more exciting cities to live in. LA. New York. London. Tokyo. Paris. Madrid. The list could go on and on... Point is, there's better places to be, but Hannibal Lecter has always been a weird one. Strangely sentimental at times, exceedingly cruel at others.

Hannibal also likes to play with the mortals, the tiny fragile humans crawling about the Earth just waiting for a nudge or a push, all too eager to opt for easy fixes that Hannibal offers them. Hopeless. Hapless. Clueless. Et cetera, et cetera. Oh, every once in awhile Matthew indulges with a pretty little thing, whispers in their ear and sees what fun they can get into, but he doesn't make _deals_ for their fuckin' _souls_. Unlike Hannibal, he's free to create a little mischief.

Such as booking an appointment with Doctor Lecter himself under the alias of "Mathias Grey." Time to work on his issues. Matthew hasn't seen Hannibal in a few years -- since Hannibal had relocated to Baltimore, actually. (The Baltimore area may have good memories, but it's also a sore spot for Matthew.) He's dressed well enough. Sharp grey trousers and a slate grey dress shirt. His shoes are shiny (they'd look nicer with blood splattered on them). His hair is a little longer than usual, but it's gelled down. Matthew thinks he looks like the quintessential misogynistic white man with too much money. While he could change his appearance, could be the opposite gender even, Matthew's attached to how he looked upon dying and Hannibal has allowed him to keep this form.

So, he stands in the ostentatious waiting room, his hands tucked comfortably in his pockets. When the office door opens, Matthew's looking at some so-called art hanging on the wall and wondering just how much money Hannibal wasted on it.

"Dad!" Matthew turns around and grins.

* * *

The record player in the corner plays a soft tune that mingles with the scratch of a pen that sounds in the middle of Hannibal Lecter's office. There's a cool breeze that drifts in through the window, carrying the mingled scents of sweet rot and the crispness of the coming winter months. Hannibal sits behind his desk as he always does at this time in the evening, jotting down quick notes in elegant script pertaining to the last patient he'd just seen. After all this time, the stories are hardly engaging, but there's something quite ironic in this. Hannibal enjoys irony almost as much as he enjoys his own pride. That his patients leave every session with a polite smile on their face, clueless that they're _paying_ to see the real monster is a never-ending source of amusement for him.

Given how long he's been around, he takes pleasure in the small things, like the record player in the corner (it's not a replica; it's original, and he's taken _great_ care to maintain it over the years), the old books he has stored in the mezzanine (also originals or first editions), and the art of cooking that he's perfected over the years. One day he'll set himself up as a chef, he's certain, but the idea of turning a hobby into work has never quite appealed. He much prefers his own vices. He prefers fine dining and expensive wine and works of art that only ripen with age.

He concludes his notes on the last patient he'd seen and then lifts the book up to his lips. Blowing upon the ink to dry it, Hannibal glances to the clock on the wall, then checks his own watch, and within a moment he's on his feet. Buttoning his dark, navy-almost-black suit jacket at the waist, Hannibal smooths his hands over his sleeves, checks that his slacks of the same color look appropriate, and then he crosses his office to go to the waiting room.

He has a new patient this evening and he wants to look approachable. Human beings are much easier to sway when they are relaxed. So he glances at himself in the reflection from the window and nods to himself. Styled hair, dark blue suit, light blue dress shirt, red tie and pocket square. It'll do nicely.

Hannibal opens the door and his typical greeting - a polite 'Good evening' - is on the tip of his tongue when recognition flickers brightly. He goes still, and when _Mathias Grey_ turns around, Hannibal's expression falls as politely as possible. At first he looks irritated, and then he looks exasperated. Finally Hannibal's expression settles on mildly incredulous.

"This should not be a surprise, and yet..." He trails off, sighs, and then lifts his chin. "Hello, Matthew. Or do you go by Mathias now? What are you doing in Baltimore?"

* * *

Of course Hannibal Lecter isn't his biological father. His Pops is long gone, buried in the dirt next to his Ma. Pretty much everyone Matthew had known in his human life is dead. Fragile creatures, humans are. Living a whopping eighty years if they're lucky and of course men had the shorter lifespan too. Well, not him and not Hannibal. Perks of already being dead. More or less.

But Hannibal and he go way back. Hannibal is the beginning and end to his real life, so it's no surprise that he's back in Hannibal's orbit. For a bit anyway. Matthew is going to poke him, see what's moving and shaking. A record is currently moving, spinning 'round and 'round and filling what he can see as a lavish and equally ostentatious office with snobby classical music. Some things never change...

Like Hannibal's appearance. Hannibal, for whatever reason, prefers to be older and somewhat foreign looking. Well, whatever, everyone had their own preferences. Some demons liked taking the appearances of hot busty women who wore powersuits, others got a kick out of being children with their big wide eyes. Some liked slumming it. It didn't matter. What does matter is that it's amusing to see Hannibal surprised by his appearance. "Tomato, tomatoe," Matthew murmurs with a shrug. Matthew or Mathias. Both names worked.

"Do I need a reason to drop in on you?" Before Hannibal has time to respond, Matthew is breezing past him into the office. "Was bored. Thought I'd come for a visit, see what you're up to, but by the looks of it, you're playing Doctor Snobby-Mindfuck. How's that going for you?"

* * *

Matthew Brown is one of the many humans that Hannibal has influenced over the years. That he's seeing him here, now, looking so similar to the way he'd been on that final day shouldn't be surprising, and yet it is. Hannibal looks at him, at the way he's chosen to present himself, and incredulity softens into something more familiar and less obvious. He's dressed better than he had been in those days, holding himself with far greater ease. He looks presentable, well-polished, and confident, though the latter is not always so welcoming in creatures of their ilk. Confidence is a balanced sword. Pride is one edge, humility and caution is the other.

Hannibal opens his mouth to respond but before he's able, Matthew is sweeping bodily into his office. Hannibal's lips twist; he'd always allowed this one far more free reign than he should have. The typical creed is to influence and leave, but Hannibal had seen a far greater potential in this one. He'd chosen to linger instead, to assist. That Matthew is here now is almost logical for all Hannibal doesn't like it.

Two demons in close proximity rarely ends well. Familiarity aside, competition and pride will always be a risk, and Hannibal has worked hard over the years to remain undetected and to keep busy. Still, he reaches a hand back to the door and reluctantly closes it before turning back to watch Matthew make his way around the inside of his office.

"Quite well. As I'm certain you remember, I prefer a much more measured approach." Hannibal steps away from the door and walks into the interior of his office, then makes his way over to the flickering fire in the fireplace in order to check on it. "How long have you been in the area?" Hannibal wonders, though 'the area' both means Baltimore _and_ Earth.

* * *

Mathew can see the draw of being a psychiatrist, of sitting across from someone and getting them to spill their guts and dirty little secrets. Demons had an intrinsic joy from messing around with humans, so why not do it professionally _and_ get paid? Such a job is considered to be esteemed and noble and Matthew knows how much Hannibal loves _helping._ (He'd been "helped," down on his luck, floundering and Hannibal had been there, a smile on his face that held no warmth and Hannibal had offered him a strong, capable hand...)

Now, he glances around the expansive fancy schmancy office. It, of course, is littered with art, exotic rugs, shelves overflowing with oldass books and comes equipped with a fucking mezzanine. Pompous asshole. Matthew wonders if Hannibal ever thinks of inviting people to crawl up there and then push 'em off over the banister. Overall Matthew is impressed. He's curious how much Hannibal charges per hour and if Hannibal is going to make him pay. It's an amusing thought that has Matthew's lips curling into a grin.

He notices the set up - two chairs sat opposite of each other - and Matthew comes to plop down on one. "Measured approach, huh," Matthew echoes back and watches Hannibal come to take a seat as well. Matthew doubts he'll stay long, but they'll at least catch up a bit. "That's one way to put it. Only a few days here in Baltimore. Visiting familiar places. Taking in the sights and changes," Matthew answers easily. "Been mostly travelling. You know me, better to stay on the move."

* * *

After looking his fill, Matthew goes to sit down in one of Hannibal's chairs. He luckily takes the one Hannibal has _not_ claimed as his own, and while he does take a few moments to smooth out his suit jacket and tend the fire with a long, cast-iron poker (and briefly considers the merits of using it), he turns and makes his way over to the other chair. Fingers going to the single button he'd buttoned, Hannibal undoes his jacket before he sits down in the seat, filling the space like he's done it hundreds of times before. He leans back, sitting straight, and one of his legs crosses casually over the other as he folds his hands over his lap. All in all, he looks attentive. It's a posture he's perfected over the years.

"Yes, I do know you, which is precisely why I'm so surprised to see you _here_ ," Hannibal says mildly. There's a touch of something else threaded under his tone like a silk lining, only it contains a note of danger instead. His displeasure is subtle, but his warning is still there regardless of how obvious it is. He lifts his chin almost imperceptibly and regards Matthew carefully. "Roots were hardly your forte. As I recall, you resented the idea of being held back, of being tied down. That you would come back _here,_ of all places, is... confusing to say the least."

It’s also dangerous. While Matthew has been dead for more than a few years by this point, there are still those alive who _could_ feasibly recognize him, particularly back in such an old home. That he’s here at all is as reckless as Hannibal expects of him. He sighs under his breath. There _is_ another reason for his irritation, the slight edge of threat to his voice, and that reason will be arriving not too long from now. This had been set up as a simple interview. The second hand ticks on, counting down the time to Hannibal's newest interest.

"Do you intend to stay long?"

* * *

Demons aren't the only supernatural type to stroll around the Earth of course. There's vampires, werewolves, witches and the like. That being the case, there's also hunters whose sole mission is to destroy those who get out of hand and cause a little too much mayhem. So, behaving and laying low has always been imperative for survival. Matthew can't go on any fun rampages and he can't bring unwanted attention to himself. Demons can influence, they whisper suggestions, they poke and encourage -- it's something Hannibal has always excelled at compared to Matthew. They might be residents of Hell, but there's still some order.

Which is exactly why someone as anal as Hannibal has worked his way up the ranks. Matthew would like to have respect (or fear) but he doesn't have the patience to actually _work_ for it. Maybe in a hundred years because he has time and there's no rush.

Matthew watches Hannibal "assume the position." What's the position? Doctor Snobby-Mindfuck preparing to be a snob while messing with your mind: unbuttoning his jacket, sitting, crossing his legs, hands in his lap lookin' oh-so-fine and normal. Hannibal is polite with him, but curt. Matthew knows he's not welcome, but that's okay. He's never needed open arms embracing him.

"I don't have any plans to put down roots, okay? Sheesh," Matthew responds. He rarely _ever_ has plans anyway. "Baltimore is all yours." He smiles. "Few days, few weeks, we'll see. I know this was just a brief meet 'n greet, so I won't keep you." Standing, he gives one more quick look around the office and then to Hannibal.

"Be seeing you around, I'm sure." With that said, Matthew makes his way to the door.

* * *

The danger in this is that Will Graham will arrive early. Over the past few weeks of tentative conversation, Will's timing has varied. The first day he'd been on time, but their next session he'd been a few minutes earlier. The one after that had been late, though he'd cited something to do with his dogs and he'd looked appropriately apologetic. If Will is _late_ then there's no issue. If he's on time, there shouldn't be one. If he's early, however... that is another matter entirely. Hannibal's frown is polite, if mild, and while Matthew's exasperation does cause him to tilt his head in silent acknowledgement of his own impatience (he may be a demon but he's got _class,_ and manners aren't simply for show), he still listens attentively.

His confidence is clear as Matthew stands. Most of his kind would protest another standing taller. Hannibal doesn't. Instead he merely tilts his head casually and allows Matthew the momentary height advantage.

"Naturally. Regardless of the danger, it _is_ good to see you. I'll see you out," Hannibal adds, offering mildly. He stands then himself and follows Matthew over to the door. Perhaps to anyone else, the act could have been seen as simple manners, but in this one instance, manners have nothing to do with it. This is possessiveness.

It takes him all of a few seconds to realize that he's too late. It's faint but he can feel a familiar tightness to the air, the softest of tugs at what could arguably be his soul. It's a unique sensation, rare, something Hannibal has only ever experienced a handful of times before, and never this strong.

"Matthew. This is the entrance. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable leaving through the exit," Hannibal pipes up, with a casual lilt to his voice. It's easily the equivalent of stirring chum into the waters, but it's still worth a shot.

* * *

Two doors -- one for the waiting room and one for the exit out of the office. All polite so the patients don't cross paths. Respectful. Respecting confidentiality. Blah blah blah. Matthew doesn't give a shit and he can tell that Hannibal cares just a little too much about him exiting out of the correct door, so naturally Matthew has no plans on listening.

"I'm just fine going through this one, thanks," Matthew replies and helps himself to opening the door out to the waiting room.

A rather scruffy looking human is slouched in defeat in the chair furthest from the office door. Matthew stops in the doorway, cocks his head to the side, considering the man. He certainly doesn't _look_ like the type of clientele that Hannibal caters too. The man shifts, straightening up and glancing over. His eyes are very blue and then he's looking startled because it's not placid Doctor Snobby-Mindfuck coming to greet him. Matthew smiles and glances back at Hannibal, giving him a wink. While not as perceptive as Hannibal, Matthew can still tell that Will is _special_.

Poor bastard. Will's definitely got the spiritual sensitivity about him and he's probably got no clue that he's going to get very messed up.

***

Will Graham may be early for his appointment, but he'd rather be early than late. Exhausted, he's all but flopped down in the surprisingly comfortable chair in the waiting room. Actually, it shouldn't be a surprise because Doctor Lecter is all about style so there's no cheap plastic chairs to be found here. Even wearing his nicer khakis and a rather threadbare dark green wool sweater, Will knows he's out of place. This is not the kind of shrink he'd find on his own. He's only here because Alana Bloom had suggested her colleague - Doctor Lecter - to Jack Crawford because Jack is "concerned" about his mental health. It doesn't feel especially great to be all but forced to see _any_ kind of doctor, but Will's opinion on the matter had been immediately discounted due to his most recent medical fiasco. He'd resisted going to the doctor for nearly a month while struggling with a fever, seizures and sleepwalking. Alana had all but dragged him to one and after numerous tests, Will had been diagnosed with a raging case of encephalitis and hospitalized. While the main problematic symptoms have cleared up with steroids, he's still been jumpy and stressed and not sleeping well... Jack had said he'd foot the bill and if Will wanted to keep helping on cases, he'd need to go and get "sorted out."

So it's his fourth appointment. Lecter's not bad, he's not a pill pusher at least and he can tolerate Will's attitude. And well, not that Will would admit it, but it's kind of nice to be able to vent to someone. When the door opens and Will realizes he's slouching he quickly corrects his posture and sits up. He's about to stand when Will looks over...

But it's not the familiar doctor coming to greet him, it's a patient, Will guesses. He can make out Lecter behind him. The man actually _looks_ at him, eyes a little beady from a strange interest that Will picks up on. He feels an odd chill go through him and Will glances down at his knees, not wanting to read too much into the stranger checking him out. Will's probably edgy from work.

"I'll see you later, Doctor Lecter," the man says and he sounds amused for some reason. Will stays looking down until the young man breezes past him. He then exhales a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding and rises slowly.

* * *

Of course Matthew would make that decision in particular. Hannibal's lips are thin with displeasure as Matthew opens the door and Hannibal can _feel_ the moment Matthew realizes why he'd been hesitant. The displeasure is briefly clear in Hannibal's eyes and they narrow slightly as Matthew glances back at him and winks. Biting his tongue against a truly scathing comment, Hannibal merely draws himself up a little straighter and does what he can to pretend that Matthew isn't currently aware of Hannibal's specific interest in this man. He steps over and takes the door in his hand, holding it open for Matthew as he steps out, and when Hannibal catches a quick look at Will, he can tell his newest patient is at least aware that _something_ is off.

Hannibal has had far more practice at curbing the aura he gives off. He can still influence, can still cast an oppressive feeling into a room, and it's clear when he's angry, but ultimately he's learned to contain himself. Matthew doesn't have that training, nor does he want it. Hannibal watches as Will looks away and he sighs, darting a quick look at his rather _rude_ charge. He still lets Matthew go. Only when the door to the waiting room has opened and closed and Matthew is on his way down the stairs does Hannibal look back at Will and visibly rein himself back in.

"Hello, Will. I must ask your forgiveness. Typically I do not allow such behavior, but that man was... not a regular patient. He was not aware of the rules I tend to uphold, and I was not aware you had already arrived. I will ensure that never happens again." Hannibal says, and he looks just irritated enough that the sentiment likely comes through loud and clear. With that said, he takes a small step back and then sweeps a hand out, gesturing to the interior of his office.

"Please come in, if you would. How have you been faring this week, Will? Is there anything you wish to talk about?"

* * *

Will is used to people looking at him. For as long as he can remember it's like the world somehow knew he'd rather _not_ get any attention and decided to spite him for it. It began with all the moving around as a child and starting new schools. His unique mishmash of symptoms from the spectrum, the overactive imagination and intelligence all proved to be difficult to manage for a poor single father. Will had always suffered from nightmares and the shitty sleep kept him looking pale which only accentuated his twitchy guarded expressions. He'd also always been able to empathize with nearly anyone and been strangely sensitive and insightful about certain individuals and places. While he can understand the empathy, the _other_ _stuff_ is what he's had a problem with. Will's never bought into any religious or New Age bullshit about auras and the like, but still, the stranger bothered him in the same way.

"It's no big deal," Will mumbles as he makes his way past Lecter into the familiar office. He has enough to deal with without focusing on weird vibes. Whereas many people can be overwhelming, Doctor Lecter hasn't been and it's honestly a relief. Will probably shouldn't feel at ease in such an environment and with a professional that's _paid_ to listen, but he does find himself relaxing somewhat as he enters the office, hangs up his jacket, and then takes his seat shortly after. Normally he has to pace for a little while before choosing to sit, but Will isn't thrumming with the usual levels of agitation. It feels good to sit.

As Doctor Lecter closes the door and makes his way to join him, Will decides to go for it (hey, it's on the FBI's dime, he might as well take advantage of it).

"The case we just wrapped up... It's getting to me, but in a different way," Will begins and rubs at his face. It's weird, he seems to have forgotten his glasses. "The killer... Was a muralist in a way. Selected his victims based on their skin color, like a color palette. They were sewn together to form a giant eye inside an empty silo."

* * *

Hannibal notices that instead of Will's typical bout of pacing, he merely goes to directly sit down. This is relatively new but Hannibal chooses to view it as a good sign. If Will is feeling more comfortable around him now, this can only be of benefit to them both. Granted, it all adds up to being _Hannibal's_ benefit in the end, but Will doesn't need to know that. So he turns back to close and lock the door behind him as he always does and then he walks over to his seat. He braces his hands on the arms of the chair as he sits down and immediately moves to get comfortable, crossing one leg over the other as he had before and folding his hands over his lap. He can't deny that he's curious; there have been times that Will has merely chosen to vent, but there have been other times where he's begun to detail cases he's working on given that Hannibal is legally bound to silence.

It's always fascinating to hear just how twisted people are capable of being. And they believe _demons_ are the monsters...

Hannibal's eyebrows climb ever so slightly at Will's admission and he cannot pretend to be unaffected by the knowledge he's been given. Creating a mural of sewn bodies in a specific color palate and putting the mural in an empty silo is very specific. The itch Hannibal has to find the muralist and pick his brain is definitely present but he doesn't let it show. Instead he leans back in his seat and considers what he's been told.

"A color palate and an eye in a silo," Hannibal muses thoughtfully. "I would imagine that the intent was to look down upon it and see the iris. There _is_ a grotesque draw to it, isn't there? Unifying all colors in an attempt to see. Or to look out. Above. A bid for God, perhaps," Hannibal adds, with a measure of amusement in his tone that Will can't possibly understand. He lifts his chin. "How is this case getting to you, Will?"

* * *

Will's pretty sure most people would be troubled and bothered by the details he shares from his work, but Doctor Lecter is not most people. Then again, he's probably short changing Alana. She wouldn't have recommended a shrink with a weak stomach for him. Still, Will always feels a little surprised when Doctor Lecter indulges him and actually gives his own insight into the crimes Will speaks of. Until now, he's only talked shop with Jack or Bev and the boys, but it's always been different with Lecter. Will doesn't have to be as concerned with what or how he says things and there's no pressure to make the right kind of jumps that would lead to an arrest.

At the mention of God, Will scoffs, but doesn't give any snarky comments. From what he's seen and gone through, Will's pretty sure there's no caring heavenly Father up there. It seemed like a stupid oversight to create humans with curiosity but then have everything hinge on _not_ taking a bite out of an apple. What a stupid story.

"He uh, the muralist was close to finishing, but he didn't get the chance," Will says and he's purposefully glancing down at his lap. "Suicide by cop. But, uh, I see certain people now and think, 'they would do, they'd be the perfect addition'. Of course the bodies have all been moved. The "eye" isn't even there anymore."

* * *

This is one reason Hannibal has taken quite a shine to this man. Will Graham may be drowning in clothing that hardly fits him, with wild tangles of hair that hide him from view and glasses with rims so thick he might as well be wearing blinders, but he is far more than that. Within Will rests not only a stunning spiritual sensitivity (and he doesn't mean that as an analogy) but a wild, thrumming, darker empathy. Hannibal has taken great pleasure in Will's insights, in watching this small, twitchy man shudder as he delves into the memory of a mindset. Even second-hand, Will can tap into thoughts and feelings and express them. Hannibal knows it comes directly from a certain level of insanity, but also from the fact that dear Will has a gift he isn't even aware of. Conversing with him is fast becoming the high point of Hannibal's week.

This week is no exception. Expression mild and thoughtful, Hannibal considers what Will says. His scoff over the mention of God is _almost_ enough to make Hannibal smile, but he doesn't. Instead he hums thoughtfully and regards Will's downcast eyes.

"Isn't it? Perhaps the eye is no longer in the silo, but I would hazard a guess that you cannot merely forget something like that. I know I couldn't. It likely resides in your mind's eye, unfinished." Hannibal reaches over and drums a familiar beat upon the arm of the cushion. He taps five times, then stops. The beat is familiar, requiring two more to finish, but he doesn't.

"There's an effect in psychiatry known as the Zeigarnik Effect, Will. It states that one is far more likely to remember uncompleted or interrupted tasks as opposed to those finished. Perhaps you were not the man who created the mural, but when you _saw_ as he did, it's not far fetched to assume that you would have briefly shared his passion. In a way, the idea _is_ appealing. Removing the idea that people needed to die for it, there is a certain unity in the act. It's almost refreshing that what we as humans often damn each other for - the color of our skin - was beautiful to his eye."

* * *

Will doesn't usually _look_ at those he passes in the grocery store or in the parking lot. He keeps to himself and would rather not possibly empathize with a mother suspecting her husband of cheating or an employee who is picturing their shitty manager getting crushed by a pallet of boxes. But ever since Gray's mural, he can't help but glance up quickly to take in the variation of skin pigmentation around him. He'd spent time staring at photographs of The Eye, he'd spent time amidst the preserved corpses, and now it feels like his mind is coated in the same sticky resin. People _weren't_ art supplies and yet Will can visualize the completed mural and he wants to glance down from atop of the silo and--

The tapping is distracting and the beat is familiar enough that Will knows it's been left incomplete. As Hannibal continues, Will understands that it's been done to illustrate the point of unfinished tasks lingering. Will tries to push down his slight irritation because he doesn't _need_ such a silly example.

"But don't people dying _elevate_ the art? I don't think I would appreciate it the same if the bodies were still living." The question and statement are out before Will can realize what he's said. Will stiffens as if expecting a reprimand. He must be tired is he's letting himself slip like this, but maybe it's time to see if he scares Lecter away.

* * *

Interesting, and thrilling. Hannibal's lips almost pull into a smile but he catches himself mere moments before they can. Right now, given the man he is pretending to be, overt approval would not be beneficial. Outright _disapproval_ is also not a good idea. So as Will speaks, Hannibal's frown is present but thoughtful instead of judgmental. It takes him a few moments to consider how best to respond, but when he does, his tone is simply casual, not damning. If Will is expecting this to scare him away, oh, how much he has yet to learn.

"Given that this is a safe space, I'll dispense with the reprimand you're likely expecting, as I admit, I was thinking the same thing. In the 18th century, there was a man by the name of Honore Fragonard, an anatomist. He acquired corpses from executions, cadavers, or graves, and embalmed them himself. Science had no idea how or why he chose to do it, but he would dissect the organs of the body and use rods and screws to piece them back together in what most called nightmarish poses. Often he would mix humans with animals. His most notable work out of about seven hundred was a skeletal man on a horse surrounded by human fetuses riding the fetuses of sheep or horses. It was grotesque to many and yet even centuries later, his artwork is on display. The dead _can_ be elevated to art. The only difference between your muralist and Monsieur Fragonard was that he didn't kill his subjects himself. Yet that is such a thin line to consider." Hannibal tilts his head, ever thoughtful as he looks over at Will.

"I'm as much a philosopher as I am a psychiatrist, Will. If you wish to engage in debates of morality, I have no objections, and I will not condemn you for appreciations that others might frown upon."

* * *

Will can't help but look up at Doctor Lecter to await the judgment. While it's certainly not the most scandalous thought to cross his mind, he's usually better at keeping them to himself. But judgment doesn't come. Hannibal doesn't look aghast nor does he appear negative in the least. The doctor is merely frowning but Will can tell it's in a contemplative manner. This has Will scrutinizing him, his own eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out Lecter's angle (isn't it always angles with doctors of the mind?). Lecter surprises him when he speaks and shares that he, too, was thinking the same thing. Huh. Will doesn't school away his surprise well enough, but Lecter continues on and delves into some rather interesting art history. And then Doctor Lecter goes one step further, inviting possibly dubious subject matter.

"Écorché, I think they call it," Will says but has no plans on confessing that he'd spent time looking up "corpse art" out of curiosity and he's seen a photograph of "The Horseman of the Apocalypse."

"And somehow I get the feeling that you'd actually _like_ to engage in a debate of morality with me. Seems right up your alley, Doctor Lecter." Will actually flashes him a small, knowing smile before running a hand through his hair. Lecter wants to play with his shadows? He'll play and he’ll see how long the older man likes to indulge him. "But sure, I'll bite. It got me thinking about an old case -- one I've never worked on. Wasn't even alive for. The Chesapeake Ripper. It had the same sort of _feeling._ "

* * *

Hannibal tilts his head in acquiescence, though there is a measure of approval in his eyes as Will mentions one of the words for this particular style of art. Perhaps 'art' in this field is subjective, but art as a whole is subjective. Is the man who paints with his own blood any less an artist than one who paints with acrylics? Is the woman who sings sweetly any more of an artist than one who sings from the diaphragm? No. Art has always been subjective, though as Hannibal watches the flicker of surprise and curiosity in Will's eyes, he doubts this conversation truly has anything to do with _art_.

Will Graham is an interesting man, after all. His interests seem to swarm gently around darker waters, leaving the light of the shallows for those less adventurous. It's been a long time since Hannibal has found a human with such promise.

It's a sensation that only grows. Hannibal is expecting everything from Will detailing another recent scene to a further extrapolation of why this muralist has snared his attention so cleanly. What he's not expecting is for Will's path to turn so sharply down a road that Hannibal hasn't traveled in a great many years.

He stills and while shock does register at the name, he is very careful not to let it show. Instead he merely lifts his chin and forces his expression blank. He allows it to grow into something curious, like the momentary blankness had been a simple searching of memories instead of a careful bid for control. Oh, the irony is _so_ very sweet. Those above and below are _so_ fond of coincidences, aren't they? On the very day that Matthew Brown enters his office, Will Graham comes and mentions The Chesapeake Ripper. Irony abounds.

"I'll admit, much as I enjoy my patients and wish them well, some of them are not as... engaging to converse with. I do remember the name, though." Hannibal adds, frowning. "I believe they wrote about him. Or her. Though given the strength required for a few of the tableaus, running theory was that he was a man, was it not? What _feeling_ did this muralist give you that the Chesapeake Ripper shared? Or, perhaps more importantly, is there a reason murders from decades ago have drawn your attention?"

* * *

When the idea of seeing a psychiatrist had been introduced to him Will had never thought he'd find one that would be as open to the darker facets of his work (and mind). On one hand Will feels lucky to have ended up in Doctor Lecter's office, but on the other hand... Well, there's some niggling sense of _something_ that wants his attention, some flare shooting off in the distance, an unknown warning streaking into the night sky, but Will doesn't want to try and work through what it could possibly mean. He already has enough on his mind, he's not going to give in and overthink his new psychiatrist.

Maybe this is karma. He's helping Jack Crawford catch killers, right? Maybe he can get some help in the process. (Somehow Will thinks that positive outlook sounds more like something that would leave Alana's Bloom's mouth than his own.)

Will can see that Doctor Lecter likes that he's not as hapless and uncultured as he may look. Granted, he only learned of of écorché from his impromptu art search online. Thanks, Google. The human form stripped of skin and painted, drawn or sculpted held a certain appeal. Will had been captivated by the complex systems of what lie _underneath_ the 'casing' as it were. It appealed to the mechanic in him.

"While there are obvious differences between the Ripper and the muralist, the aspect of the murder tableau resonated with me," Will answers simply and settles a little lower in the chair, getting more comfortable. "Whereas the Ripper sure liked carving out striking scenes and having them be admired, I don't think this killer necessarily wanted his Eye to be seen. But the feeling I got was the display of something above ordinary significance. And there was a degree of craftsmanship. Obviously the Chesapeake Ripper had much more time to show off their skill and the scenes were varied. Maybe this would have been a one-off for the muralist. We'll never know."

* * *

Hannibal thinks he would have liked to meet this muralist. Perhaps - depending on where the man has wound up - there is a possibility to one day ask a few questions. It's hardly something Hannibal believes will be entirely possible but Will has once again piqued his interest. Will Graham is a man who finds harmony in chaos and chaos in complacency. That he can carry this sort of conversation with the skill he's been showing is nothing short of admirable. Hannibal's posture eases ever so slightly and while he does try to hold it back, there is interest in his eyes.

"You believe the Chesapeake Ripper thrived on showcasing their work. It was the running theory. If my memory serves - and you'll have to forgive me if it doesn't, as my field of practice doesn't see quite as many serial killers as yours - there were always organs missing. I assume your muralist didn't take trophies. He hardly needed to. It seems to me that the entire work of art was the trophy he was creating for himself." Hannibal trails off, and after a moment of looking over at Will, Hannibal sets his hands on his knees and slowly gets to his feet. He turns and walks to the far wall and takes down a bottle of wine. He has two glasses poured in a few seconds, and he returns to offer one of them to Will.

This is the first time he's offered Will a drink. This, he's finding, has already gone beyond therapy.

"Did you look into the Chesapeake Ripper in an attempt to understand your muralist? Or is this a knowledge you've had for some time?"

* * *

Will's aware that he's both talking and offering information much more freely than he's done in the past. Will's not necessarily _shy_ as much as incredibly selective in who he wants to actually converse with. Alana? Sure, usually. Jack? About cases only. Bev? Yes as long as it's not too personal. His students? Preferably not. Zeller? No thanks. Price? In small quantities. Doctor Hannibal Lecter? Apparently Will is more okay than he initially thought -- at least while delving into his thoughts about serial killers.

Does Will notice the interest in Lecter's eyes? Yeah, but he chalks it up to the kinds of clientele the Doctor usually had to put up with (likely the rich with their mundane and silly concerns). Will at least knows that the thoughts that skip around the surface of _his_ mind aren't boring. He's got thoughts across the whole sanity spectrum covered.

Will listens, finding himself actually curious about how knowledgeable Lecter is. Given the Ripper operated in this area, Will isn't surprised that the Doctor knows of the details and is able to carry on a conversation about the topic. Will nods at the the trophy insight, making an affirmative "mm" sound, but then startles a little as the man opposite of him abruptly stands. Will sits up straighter, watching as Lecter makes his way over to a wall and procures two wine glasses and wine, pouring some overpriced red in them. Will blinks but takes the offered wine glass, grasping the bowl instead of the stem. Oh, he's aware that he probably looks like a barbarian with a goblet, but he's not here to impress anyone. He's not a wine drinker by any means and Lecter will just have to put up with it.

He's also aware that this is an action that signals them moving out of therapy and more toward a friendship of sorts. Will's not sure how he should feel about that, but hey, free wine. (Also, if Lecter actually _likes_ him, he'd be less likely to report to Jack that he's unfit. So, he'll drink Lecter's wine and talk about killers.)

"I didn't need to look into the Ripper for any help on this last case," Will answers with a shrug. "This may sound strange, but the Chesapeake Ripper has always stuck with me since I got to thoroughly take a look at the files for a special lecture." Will takes a sip of the wine and tries his best to not flinch at the dry taste. "More recently I've had dreams of his victims. Olmstead, specifically. The man killed in his workshop with all the tools. An ode to the "wound man" illustration if I ever saw one."

Will shivers at the memory, frowning as he takes another, larger sip of wine.

* * *

Wine is clearly not Will's drink of choice but Hannibal reserves judgement as Will grasps the bowl of the glass instead of the stem. Hannibal considers him for only a moment before he reclaims his seat and settles down in it, the flute of his own glass delicate between his fingers as he swirls the wine around in the bowl to bring out its bouquet. Perhaps if this were to become habit, Hannibal would discover what wines Will could palate properly. He _does_ notice the brief flinch and smiles inwardly, covering for his own amusement by raising the glass to his lips in order to inhale the fragrant bouquet before taking a sip. Occasionally humans can still do something right.

"That doesn't sound strange to me," Hannibal offers mildly. Inwardly he finds himself fascinated by this turn in the conversation. It feels almost like a treat; demons and their pride, after all.

"It's not unheard of for people to find an obsession with serial killers. In a sense, with proper deference to the victims' families, there is something entirely fascinating about them. The mix of psychosis and brutality, and the ingenuity for some, though don't quote me on that. I have many patients discuss an obsession here and there. Your selection is not entirely surprising, though most go more mainstream with the Zodiac." Something that always irritates Hannibal. Boring creature that he'd been.

"I believe I remember Olmstead, though I hadn't by name. The Wound Man is a rather common illustration in any medical text. I was required to study it myself when I attended medical school. I was a surgeon before," Hannibal offers. He'd been unable to resist; with the advances in medical technology, it had been thrilling and it had put him in a very pleasant situation. Surrounded by the dead, the dying, and the desperate. It had been _too_ simple by times. He prefers the art of manipulation, like this.

"You say you've had dreams of Olmstead. I assume they're hardly pleasant. Would you like to talk about them?"

* * *

To Doctor Lecter's credit, Lecter doesn't actually give Will any judgmental looks about how he takes and holds the wine glass. Will isn't interested in swishing it around to enjoy the scent. To him, it's free alcohol and a sign of possible friendship. Will's uncertain if _he_ wants to be friends with Lecter. He doesn't know much about the man to say one way or another. Doctor Lecter obviously feels like _he's_ interesting enough, but there's still the power imbalance because Lecter is being _paid_ to listen to him. (Even so, Will's confident that Lecter doesn't make overtures of friendship to just anyone. The thought makes an odd thrill go through him.)

Will wants to assert that it's _not_ serial killers in general he likes or is obsessed with (what the fuck?). Killers are a part of his job, he studies them, looks at crime scenes and crime scene photos. He interprets the evidence. He makes jumps. He catches them or at least his insight points law enforcement in the right direction. It's only the bizarre cases that leave any lingering impression on him and Will thinks that the encephalitis had exacerbated that. However, the Chesapeake Ripper is on a different plane. Will holds his tongue, though, because it's nice that Lecter isn't making a big deal out of everything.

Surgeon. Of fucking course Doctor Lecter would have also been a surgeon. Alana hadn't mentioned that to Jack or him... at least Will thinks she hadn't. But Will honestly hadn't been paying too much attention to the finer details as he was being strong-armed into coming here.

Will takes another sip of the wine and considers if he wants to delve into the details of this particular nightmare. Will doesn't know if it _will_ help, but it's probably not going to make anything worse. So far Lecter hadn't reacted negatively to him and it _was_ just a dream.

"Okay, sure," he replies and takes a deeper breath, staring down into the wine. "Been dreaming that it's my body laying on the workshop bench and being impaled with tool after tool, but I'm not dead. At least not yet. The Ripper is there, but shrouded in darkness, in shadows. I know he's taken my kidney though."

* * *

This is one of the many reasons that Hannibal Lecter enjoys Will's mind. He sits through a crush of ordinary people day in and day out, and while a few are worthy enough to take note of, none of them have ever had a particular grasp on darkness the way Will Graham has. There is no doubt in Hannibal's mind that Will's dreams are going to be twisted. Looking as deeply as he does, being as sensitive as he is, he's susceptible to influence. As Hannibal lifts his wine glass to his lips and looks out at Will's thoughtful expression, he merely sends him a mild look. It isn't the expression of a man who had _intentionally_ influenced Will's mind in a certain direction simply because he'd been curious.

It's fascinating, a gift like Will's. With most humans, Hannibal needs to detail every aspect of every action he does. With Will, all he'd needed to do was whisper the suggestion of The Wound Man. Hearing what he says now is like abstract art in itself. Hannibal had given his personal commissioner free rein around a central idea, and now Will is detailing it back to him. He carefully schools his expression to not look _too_ interested, merely curious.

"Do you believe there is some significance in the organ he wishes to take from you?" Hannibal asks, lowering his wine glass and letting the residual notes of the wine play across his senses. "The kidneys are responsible for filtering out toxins and maintaining the proper volume of blood in the body. Perhaps your Ripper doesn't wish you to maintain yourself as you have been. Or perhaps there are certain toxins he'd prefer you to keep." This is the interesting part; Hannibal may have made the suggestion, but this interpretation is alien even to him. Will's mind is a wonderfully thrilling place.

"How do you feel in your dream, Will? Afraid?"

* * *

Will can't remember the last time he's ever shared about a dream with anyone. Or well, he supposes this one is likely more akin to a nightmare. Dreams he's heard other people recount always seemed silly (going to work naked or something equally stupid) or were sex related (fantasies involving hot models or actresses). God, he wonders how those poor souls managed with such content. Even before he was involved in law enforcement, before he had any possible _reason_ to have a stressed imagination, Will's always had darkness permeate.

But he'll dangle this bait in front of Lecter. He'll share and hopefully keep the good Doctor's interest in the process. (He has the slim hope that it could help. Will wants to be better...)

So, he listens to Doctor Lecter explore the possible meanings of his damn kidney being surgically removed in one of his many messed up dreams.

"He didn't have any rhyme or reason why he took certain organs in the cases. Whatever looked the tastiest, I imagine," Will mutters. He's not about to assert that the Ripper in _his_ dreams has some special connection _with_ him. Yeah, it's his dream, but the Ripper was a serial killer that operated in the 60s, it made no sense for his psyche to assign meaning in such a way. "And as for how I _felt_ during it," Will can't help the slight sneer sliding into his voice.

"After the agonizing pain seemed to send me into shock, I felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Like he was watching me. I was quite effectively at his mercy and pinned. I suppose like his very own butterfly." Will downs the wine but the tables next to them have no coaster so he holds onto the glass.

* * *

Normally Hannibal cannot abide rudeness. He has referred patients on more than one occasion for a lack of respect, and while killing is generally frowned upon without using humans as intervention, he still has the skills. Occasionally the temptation is there. So that Hannibal has begun to enjoy Will's penchant for being brash is uncharacteristic of him. Perhaps it's the empathy, or perhaps it's simply that he doesn't _need_ to kill Will at present; he's far more interesting alive. For all his rudeness, his mind is open to Hannibal in the evenings, and there is a certain thrilling pleasure that he feels at the first-hand account of how it had felt to be at the mercy of his own imagination.

Hannibal doesn't bat an eye as Will drains the rest of his wine. Instead there's a slight flicker of amusement behind his eyes and, after taking another sip from his own wine, Hannibal gently rises and reaches out, gesturing politely for Will to give him the glass.

"Red is not to your taste, I assume," he says casually, walking back to the wine rack. It takes him but a moment to find a nice, lighter rosé. It's sweeter, an easier transitional wine, and he pours Will half a glass before walking it back to him. Hannibal bites back the urge to speak about the vintage; there will be time for lighter conversation later. For this moment, Hannibal simply passes Will the glass of wine and then sits again, keeping his legs uncrossed this time.

"I'm afraid I don't know enough about the Chesapeake Ripper to argue otherwise. If it becomes a recurring theme, perhaps it would behoove me to do a little more reading on the subject," Hannibal says with a note of apology in his voice. "So you felt watched. Pinned in place. Was there an emotional component?" Hannibal asks, though he sounds almost apologetic for doing so. "Often when we dream, regardless of how grotesque the images might be, it is the underlying emotion that truly points fingers. Setting often assists as well. For instance, a basement often refers to what one is attempting to hide.”

* * *

Will isn't concerned about sucking up to Doctor Lecter about the wine. It's not like the man is his boyfriend or anything. When the Doctor points out Will's obvious dislike of the type, Will simply says nothing. Given the length of the appointment, Will isn't worried about accepting another glass of wine (though he notices Lecter only pours him half of one). The thought of getting drunk here probably shouldn't be so amusing, but it is. Will doubts he'll get anymore refills, but it's still free booze and it's making him feel slightly warmer. He takes a curious sip and doesn't flinch this time at the taste.

Will barely manages to contain a snort at the usage of the word 'behoove' from Lecter. It’s exactly the kind of word that Lecter _should_ use, but it's still odd enough to be entertaining. Will's looking down at his wine glass, at the lighter colored liquid, so when the doctor brings up the 'emotional component,' he can't see Will's face tense. Well... It was better to know now than later if he would chase this shrink off, right?

"A part of me liked it," Will states boldly. "Liked the attention, liked being restrained. My mind is rather overactive and in that moment, with my death an inevitability, it was quieter." He thinks Doctor Lecter will zero in on the topic of his death rather than the positive feelings Will had whilst being tied up and helpless.

* * *

Hannibal hesitates, but while Will expects one response from him, instead he merely looks thoughtfully in Will's direction. For a few moments he simply watches him, curious. It's interesting. Hannibal has never had a patient outright claim enjoyment like this, but somehow when compared to the man that Will Graham is, he can see nothing else that fits. Nodding slowly, Hannibal reclines in his seat and considers Will for a long moment as he lifts his glass to his lips. Taking a slow sip, he samples the flavors once more before letting them settle on the back of his tongue. Truly something worth savoring, like this conversation.

"There are running theories that death in dreams does not signify death in real life. Often times it will signify an end in some fashion, so perhaps we could draw some other meaning behind it. But if you enjoyed his attention and enjoyed being restrained, there is another option that seems possible." Hannibal says simply, lifting an eyebrow. "As gruesome as the dream was, what you're describing sounds a lot like willingly giving up control. In patients with hyper-vigilance or extreme anxiety, often their minds cycle endlessly, worrying about what the _worst_ possible thing is that could happen. Well, in this case - in your dream - you're dying already. The worst has already happened. It isn't unreasonable to assume that there is a certain level of comfort from knowing that things can only either end, or get better from there. Perhaps there is also an element of control too." Another sip, and then Hannibal reclines in his seat further, looking curious.

"Tell me, Will, how controlled do you keep yourself on a regular basis?"

* * *

When Doctor Lecter doesn't immediately jump on Will mentioning death and his _feelings_ about it, Will does glance up. Lecter looks... remarkably okay. The man is obviously interested in the topic, also curious, but he's not _bothered_. This puts Will a bit more at ease. For a moment, they simply regard each other. Hannibal Lecter with the first glass of wine still, the red, and Will Graham with the lighter pink wine picked specifically for him. Two men simply having a conversation under the premise of therapy? No, it was still therapy, they weren't friends talking (not yet?) but it felt a bit different. Will considers it a positive though. He would rather veer a little away from traditional therapy anyway.

The Doctor's reply is given to him in layers. He starts with the idea of the symbolism of death in dreams (something coming to an end -- Will hopes it's not his fucking sanity, please and thanks). Lecter then moves onto the topic of willingly giving up control and how the worst had already happened (Will's not sure he quite agrees, but he keeps his mouth shut). And then to the idea that it could be comforting to know that things could only end or get better. But then it returns to control and Lecter is steering them back into Will giving him personal information.

Will doesn't immediately respond. He's unsure if he _wants_ to answer the question. It's always strikingly different when _he_ decides to divulge pieces of himself compared to when it's requested. He's never liked officials or professionals asking him for personal things. Name? Date of birth? Address? Driver's license? Phone number? Email address? The present day world was nosy and demanding. Logically Will knows sharing a fucked up dream involving a prolific killer from the 60s could be considered more personal than how he _lives_ his life, but Will is still a guarded individual.

"Controlled?" Will repeats the word back, feeling how his lips and tongue move while saying the word. Will thinks of his cluttered farmhouse filled with dog hair... Both _he_ and his home appear messy and disorganized at first glance, but then there's his clothes folded neatly in his drawers and how he wears his glasses to avoid eye contact. How he meticulously makes the homemade food for his dogs. How he generally won't attend any work or social gatherings without having a certain amount of alcohol in his system. Will thinks how he's always prepared with a list to go fucking grocery shopping so he can be in and out quickly. How he takes the fastest way back to the parking lot after work.

"Uh... I'm probably on the more extreme side of things. When I can be. Obviously I can't _always_ be in control. Especially when helping Jack. He says 'jump!', I fucking jump." Will takes a large gulp of the wine.

* * *

Hannibal nods slowly. Though Will is clearly not comfortable divulging so much information at once, he's doing admirably. This is where Hannibal differs from most demons. Most, he finds, have a certain _air_ about them. They see themselves as bad, or evil, and they actively enjoy it and work towards it. Hannibal enjoys distress, enjoys the power in making another bend to him; he's a sadist. Yet he has a slightly more evolved take on things. Building a relationship and helping others is sneered at down below, but he finds that it makes the resulting moments that much more interesting. To earn trust means to create more pain by taking it away. And in some cases, he doesn't bother. Matthew Brown had trusted him and Hannibal had been open and honest with him decades ago. It had been beneficial to them both. _Suffering_ isn't always necessary to doing a good job, and as Hannibal watches Will look within himself, he sips at his wine and thinks of potential. Will Graham certainly has a fair bit of it.

Hannibal is _good_ at his job. So while most demons would have likely taken the angle of suffering and forced the patient to relive it, Hannibal has more pride in his work. He'd saved people as a surgeon despite not having to. This is no different. So he considers the way Will gulps down his wine to avoid divulging too much or lingering on what he'd said. He's a guarded individual, and Hannibal had been correct to assume the rationale behind the dream.

He nods slowly, thoughtfully. "I know it might seem a little unorthodox, but the mind attempts to rationalize emotions through personal experiences. Given what you face on a day-to-day basis, it's not outside the realm of the possible that this was your mind's attempt to reflect a need to let go. Requiring control is nothing to be ashamed of, though many would attempt to say so," Hannibal adds, with a smile in his eyes instead of his lips. "I am guilty of the same; I value my own control. Provided your need for control stays contained and doesn't bleed out into an attempt to control others - like I would imagine you experience with Jack Crawford - there is little danger in it. That said, if this dream _was_ an attempt to direct your attention to a desire to let go of some of your control, you might try experimenting in small ways or searching for the reasons why you feel you _need_ to be in control."

* * *

Will doesn't put much stock in caring about whether or not things are orthodox. His mind _feels_ far from normal and the crime scenes _he_ gets to consult on are spectacular shades of abnormal. As he listens to Lecter talk, Will has the realization that he actually _likes_ talking to him. Doctor Lecter is a composed professional who seems to not need to shy away from untasty subject matter nor make a scene. So far, anyway. Sure, maybe the guy is just fucked up and likes the change of pace from the mundane, but Lecter doesn't seem _overly_ interested in this change of pace. He's showing more curiosity, but it's not an inappropriate amount.

One glance around the office and at the Doctor himself, it's easy enough to see that Lecter lives a controlled life. It's orderly, but not exactly severe. Although Lecter may dress meticulous, Will has noticed the slightest amount of chaos present in conflicting patterns on the ties compared to the suits. It doesn't look bad (he thinks it should have), but somehow the Doctor pulled it off.

"Experimenting in small ways?" Will repeats back. He's not too sure he'll be looking for ways to give up control. That doesn't sound like what he wants to do at all. "And the control keeps keeps me safe and sane. Pretty sure I don't want to go messing around with that." He may not have control over his dreams, but when he's awake, he's going to be damn certain he's keeping things close to his chest. He's going to limit his eye contact, limit his exposure to people--

Of course his bout with Encephalitis had complicated matters, but he's better now...

* * *

"I have no desire to even suggest a change if you're content with the way things are," Hannibal says, tipping his head lightly in Will's direction. He'd not missed the look around the room, or the way Will had focused on Hannibal's own desire for control. One glance at the room is enough for him to take note of it. His desk is clean and organized, with papers stacked neatly, every desktop trinket arranged in its own place. His floors are spotless, his drapes and windows free of dust. His fireplace is well-kept, no ashes present, and each book in his library in the mezzanine is organized by author, as well as alphabetically. Hannibal is hardly a man to speak about relaxing control, and that Will's mild glance had said it so well does prove amusing.

Even so, this is giving Hannibal ideas for later. They're small, barely-formed, but they hardly need to be great to influence Will's dreams. Dreaming is the perfect time to oppress a human. Their minds weak and open to suggestion, Hannibal has often exerted his own influence. Even Will's nightmare of Olmstead had been his doing. Still, Hannibal can whisper a suggestion, something simple, such as ' _you feel trapped_ ', but what his victim's mind comes up with is another matter altogether. He'd not led Will into thoughts of Olmstead. That had been Will's own mind.

"If you're satisfied with the current level of control in your life then you needn't concern yourself with finding a balance. However, if your dreams _are_ hinged upon the notion that you feel like you're drowning in your own need for control, they will only get worse over time. For argument's sake," Hannibal goes on conversationally, "a simple way to let go of control is to slightly break an established routine. If you wash the dishes every Monday, push it through until Tuesday one week. Often times patients with compulsions - and I'm not saying you are one - find a break in routine ultimately helpful long-term. However if you're comfortable, and your need for control doesn't stem from a need to keep a part of yourself _controlled_ , then I hardly see a problem."

Hannibal offers Will a small, polite smile, as innocent as it's plausible for him to be. He believes he knows exactly what Will is trying to hide, and Hannibal wonders how long he will need to push before Will breaks.

* * *

_'I have no desire to even suggest a change if you're content with the way things are...'_

Will doesn't know if he would say he's necessarily _content_ , but he's long believed that such a state isn't for him anyway. He isn't the type to have a "good life." A white picket fence, a family, contentment? A work day he could discuss over dinner with a girlfriend? Yeah, isn't going to happen. Not in the cards for Will. Because he's different. He's always been different. Known it. Felt it. He'd thought it was just the empathy, but there's _something_ _else_ that sets Will Graham apart. He may not understand it, but it's there. (Some black mark on his soul, some stain...)

There's the dreams (or nightmares). There's the sensitivity that acts up around certain people or in certain environments. There's whispers he can't quite make out, eyes that seem off somehow, like if he just took a second or third glance, he'd notice why, and reveal the secret. A hallucination or two, but he knows what's real.

Maybe the secret is that he's just crazy but still managing to function. He's going to keep managing. But he doesn't think he's going to do any of this breaking his established routine bullshit. Lecter talks about washing dishes on different days and yeah Will knows it's his job to propose actions that could help him, but Will just wants someone to listen to him and Lecter is doing that at least.

"And just what do you think I would need to keep controlled, Doctor?" It may sound like a challenge, but it's coming from Will's own curiosity. Will watches Lecter closely, genuinely interested in his answer.

* * *

Interesting. Hannibal cants his head to the side ever so slightly as Will throws a challenge back at him. For a moment Hannibal is almost impressed but then the emotion fades back into a curling curiosity. That is what he finds in Will Graham, after all. He finds curiosity. He finds intrigue and a thrill in talking to this twitchy, half-broken man who dreams of death and finds himself wrapped in a reality of blood and suffering. Ultimately he is the most interesting human that Hannibal has talked to in decades. Beyond that, Will can sense him. It's subtle, silent, hardly-there. He doesn't really _know_ that's what he's seeing, but the response is clear.

So having Will challenge him in such a blatant way can only speak to more interesting things. Hannibal considers him for a carefully thought-out moment and then he lifts his wine glass to his lips, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. The flavor slides over his senses as he considers how to proceed. Perhaps it would be easier to introduce the concept subtly but as Hannibal looks at Will and sees the interest clear in his eyes, he dismisses it. Instead Hannibal lowers his wine glass, swallows, and then lifts his eyebrows slightly.

"Yourself, I would assume." It's blunt, but Hannibal's tone is still gentle. He says it professionally, without the need for shock value. He is no longer a creature who relies on shock value in the face of an artful manipulation. "You've spoken to me at length about the cases you've worked, Will. What you've seen, how much you've seen, what you've suffered. There are times you've spoken where your voice and body language have pointed toward unease, or fear. Likely of yourself. Your empathy becomes you, Will, so those you become while in the grips of the empathy also become you in a fashion. Your need to complete the mural, your dreams..."

Hannibal trails off, leaving a pointed, pregnant pause so Will can consider this. He does like seeing the gears in Will's head turn. "You have a very unique talent, Will. I would not ask you to set that aside. But ultimately I am also interested in your well-being. If you fear what you might be capable of if you lose control, that concerns me insofar that it would affect you negatively."

* * *

Will sees interest perk up in Doctor Lecter. He almost _feels_ it, like an insect crawling over his skin, subtle but present. He's issued a challenge. This isn't the first time Will’s done such a thing (he's never been great at biting his tongue), but it's perhaps the first time it's inviting something so damn personal. It's risky, or maybe it's just plain stupid. Probably both, but the question has been posed and the words are out between the two of them. Will watches Hannibal's head tilt to the side ever so slightly in consideration.

There's an unexpected sliver of pleasure at capturing Doctor Lecter's attention in this. It's an absurd thing, really. Will's never wanted _anyone's_ attention. He's never needed it. He'd been fine and on his own for as long as he can remember. (No, not _content_ , but definitely managing.) It's not like Lecter is even important or special (in general or _to_ him.) Even so, the niggling feeling remains like a fly buzzing around his ears, but Will is going to ignore it.

Lecter is in no rush to respond and Will mirrors his actions -- taking another sip of his own wine and finally starting to feel the slight dulling of his senses. It's a familiar comfort. The bottle... Well, it helps him cope. He's not an alcoholic. And _if_ he was, Will thinks he'd be a functioning alcoholic. That's not too bad, right? (That picket fence, that wife with the apron welcoming him home, _growing old_ with someone? Not gonna happen. When he's used up - done jumping and scrambling for Jack - or when his own mind becomes too scrambled or it's too difficult to pretend to be social and play nice, he'll be some recluse falling into said bottle and the only _real_ conversation he'll have is with his dogs.)

He likes the bluntness, although unlike Jack, Hannibal manages to wrap the sentiment in silk. What he's seen. How much he's seen. What he's suffered... Unease. Fear. The slick feeling of a mind lingering, the stickiness - like tar - clinging to his own thoughts and associations. All true, but not an easy pill to swallow. If it was anyone else, he'd spit the pill back at them, but Lecter is not seen as the enemy.

Will downs the rest of his own wine and places the glass on the table beside his chair, no longer concerned about the lack of a coaster. He gets up, feeling the need to walk. "My wellbeing... That's why I'm here. Jack wants you to keep me tuned up enough to keep on truckin'." Will can be an agitated pacer, but he's not now. He's casual in his steps, one hand coming to rub at his face as he works his way around the perimeter of the office.

"After the Hobbs case - the Minnesota Shrike - I could see myself killing _her._ Over and over again I held her and slit her throat like her father had." Will stops, his shoulders low as he jams his hands in his pocket and comes to stare at a black sculpture of a stag. Normally Will would be uptight and on high alert when sharing damning information. Now it just feels like a concession, as if he's merely obliging Hannibal Lecter in providing proof.

* * *

Hannibal watches Will down the rest of his wine and set the glass down and he remains curiously quiet as Will stands. For a moment Hannibal wonders if Will is going to walk toward the door. Instead, Will begins to pace. It's casual, his movements slow, as if he's purposefully holding himself back, and the action - the control - is something that Hannibal finds fascinating. Will Graham once again proves to him that he is worth Hannibal's attention. As Will walks, Hannibal slowly reaches out into the space between them with his influence, and he basks in the unique darkness radiating from this creature opposite him. He has _much_ potential and Hannibal wonders just what combination of actions and manipulation will fold Will into the origami of his choosing.

He remains seated, graciously giving Will the power of height between them, and Hannibal sips at his wine as he watches Will's slow dance unfold. He looks drawn and tired, bent double over his great snarling burden. Hannibal tilts his head, admiring Will's stoic continence and wondering how simple it will be to make him bend the way Hannibal wishes him to.

Though as Will goes on, mentioning one of his earlier cases, Hannibal lifts his chin in interest. Perhaps he won't need to exert the same influence over Will that he might need to with another. Curious. Eyeing him carefully, Hannibal sets his wine aside and watches as Will makes a slow circuit of the room.

"Dear Jack Crawford allowed you to get in too deep," Hannibal surmises simply. Knowing Jack, this isn't a surprise. "I know enough of the Minnesota Shrike to know what happened and there is something about the moment of death that imprints on us all. Death is... a natural conclusion, but not everyone has the capacity for it. Fantasies and imaginings cannot hold a candle to the moment life fades. There is a reason that seeing death is often a basis for the development of post traumatic stress disorder."

Hannibal eyes Will for a moment and then sets his hands on the armrests of his chair. He rises slowly and casually walks after Will, though stops a respectful distance away as Will eyes the stag. Hannibal glances from the statue to Will and back again.

"In a person without an empathy disorder such as yours, being that close to Hobbs and his daughter would have been jarring enough to spark the disorder alone. Given your... unique abilities, I am not surprised the moment imprinted so heavily upon you. I would not fault you your mind's attempt to reconcile what you saw. What I _do_ fault is that good Jack has once again thrown you back into the mouth of the beast before we have had a chance to properly establish a therapeutic relationship. If you cannot speak to me about your difficulties and concerns, I'm doing you no good, but one cannot force trust."

* * *

He hadn't been able to save Abigail Hobbs. Hobbs' wife lay in front of the door, gurgling blood and Will had known he couldn't save her. He was alone, only one man and a monster remained inside its lair. So Will had drawn his firearm and barreled inside. A father and daughter... A killer and his prized victim... Will had pulled the trigger ten times, but evidently not fast enough because the knife had began its introduction to her throat. Abigail Hobbs had a fair complexion, big blue eyes and brown hair; the red stood out in stark contrast. She lie on the floor, her father slumped in the corner, both bleeding. So much blood, so much fear and Hobbs had whispered, _see_? And Will had looked down, his hands trying to stop the bleeding, trying to save, but he didn't know how to. ' _I don't want to die! Please help me--'_ She'd been frantic and Will's hands had shook and the nights that'd followed... it was far too easy to picture a different outcome, one in which he'd managed to save her. That, or he was killing her. Funny how dreams blurred the lines so easily...

Perhaps the worst turn of events had been the eventual unveiling that Abigail Hobbs had aided her father in his extracurricular activities. It was easy for most to paint her as a villain alongside Garrett Jacob Hobbs, but Will understood. The world was messed up, she wanted to live, she knew it was either her or them. It didn't make her death any easier to stand though. It wasn't as if Abigail's death rid the world of a monster.

Everyone knew of the case, of course. The Minnesota Shrike. Killing girls that looked like his daughter. Eating them, feeding them to his own family, ensuring all of their parts were used as to not waste. Freddie Lounds, the vulture, had had a field day on it. Most press had, actually.

PTSD. Will stiffens at the mention. He's not going to take on another label... but it doesn't sound like Lecter is necessarily going to push it. He hadn't pushed any pills, hadn't conducted any of the standard tests. Will notices Lecter getting up, but he doesn't shy away and Lecter doesn't crowd closer to him. Somehow the Doctor always seems to know just how far to push, managing to be respectful yet still demanding to be noticed. Will's eyebrows draw in as Lecter actually has the balls to throw Jack under the bus. Jack Crawford, well the FBI, were footing the bill. Is Hannibal Lecter trying to alienate him from Jack?

Will dashes the thought. There's no reason for that.

"I like helping," Will insists, but the argument sounds flat to him. He turns away from the stag to regard Lecter (or his chin at least). "And I do trust you, as much as I can after knowing you a month at any rate." Will doesn't know why it seems important to measure up somehow, to defend himself, but the damn urgency is there nonetheless. "I'm speaking now." Will adds on. He swallows and licks his lips, hesitant to continue, but he doesn't like the idea of being seen as resistant... He wants to get better, doesn't he?

"I don't always dream that I'm killing her. Sometimes... Sometimes I _save her_. Sometimes my hands do the right thing, move in the right way..." Will's hands have come out of his pockets and he's looking down at them, he can still see her blood... Why hadn't he been quicker? Why hadn't he held her neck the right way, applied pressure to slow the bleeding...

* * *

Interesting. Dear Will and labels do not mix company it seems. Hannibal watches the way his shoulders tense, so resistant to the idea that someone might be able to put a finger on what makes him tick. A fear of being known? No. A fear of being known _as he is_. Very interesting indeed...

With Will's back turned, Hannibal glances down at the visible column of Will's neck. He could breathe in here were he masochistic enough to subject him to the scent of cheap aftershave. He doesn't, but Hannibal finds himself intrigued just the same. Such a curious man, Will Graham. Dressed in clothes that barely fit, unshaven, his near-beard patchy with the clinical signs of reduced testosterone, his haunted, ever-downcast eyes, and all of that shielding such a calculating, cunning mind. Hannibal finds himself reconsidering a few ideas then, though when Will finally turns back to him, he keeps his expression mild.

 _Eager_ , Hannibal inwardly adds on. _Desperate for approval_. Will reminds him of Matthew Brown in a way, though the comparison is only akin to calling a chihuahua a wolf. Both canines, one far fiercer than the other. Hannibal looks at Will, ever polite, and at the protest that Will _does_ trust him as much as he can, Hannibal nods his understanding, his expression calm and clear, without judgement. He wonders for a moment if this is Will's attempt to make him proud, to be memorable. Such an interesting man.

One who only becomes more interesting when he goes on. The mention of the Hobbs girl is enough to make Hannibal's eyebrows lift slowly. For a moment, he fancies the idea of a deal, but... no. No, Will has imprinted this creature upon his psyche. He wouldn't truly want her back. Yet this does offer Hannibal an opportunity to wind the leash ever tighter. He can see the way Will is beginning to withdraw.

"You will gain your trust at your own rate, and no sooner. I am a patient man, Will, and your care is what is important. On that topic, at the risk of reopening a painful subject... I would like you to know that there was likely nothing you could have done to save her."

Hannibal allows that to sink in for only a moment. Then he continues, glancing back at the stag. Professional detachment.

"I recall reading the reports, and the tabloids were not kind to Ms. Hobbs post-mortem. That said, I did see where the incision had been made. I am... unsure whether or not you'll find comfort in it, but only a trained medical hand could have made a difference, Will. Once severed, the exact pressure must be known to hold the artery together, and many surgeons will still lose patients regardless. Ms. Hobbs was not your fault."

Another pause. "Do you dream of her often? Or other realities where you've saved her?"

* * *

He'd never squeezed the trigger on his firearm before Hobbs. Perhaps if he had done so quicker, the wound wouldn't have been fatal for Abigail. What if's are useless, but they still plague Will. The encephalitis had kicked off around that time too, the cherry on the cake... The stress of that case, of getting so close to Hobbs, it had only added accelerant to the fire. And oh, what a forest fire it had been. Will's still not entirely sure what had been the encephalitis and what's _left_ now...

Lecter's words, the reassurance, could come across as patronizing if not for the evidence to back up the claim -- that Will likely couldn't have saved her. Lecter has obvious medical expertise (a fucking _surgeon_ even, if only _he'd_ been with him). While it likely _is_ the truth, the truth doesn't set Will free. Conscious that he could have been looking rather theatrical before, his hands fall back to his sides. He doesn't need a Shakespeare moment here.

Will considers Lecter's further questions. He knows he's invited this, he's stepped up to the plate like the little kiddo not wanting to disappoint their dad. (Now wasn't _that_ a thought...) Even so, Will feels the urge to fold in on himself.

"What does it say about me that it's harder to share my delusional happy ending than the reenactment of the inciting violence?" Will begins, a note of bitterness in his voice. "Don't answer that." He shakes his head and then licks his bottom lip before pushing himself to continue. "In my dreams, in a different reality, she becomes like a daughter to me." There's an ache and embarrassment that crops up at the admission. "It's stupid really. I orphan her and then want to try and take her dad's place? I don't even know anything about raising a teenager, but there's been times I could see myself teaching her how to fish. I'd have enjoyed that. Her father had taught her hunting... I'd teach her my own craft."

Will runs a hand through his hair, feeling a little exasperated at the vulnerability. He eyes the door longingly. He's ready to bolt at the moment Lecter responds poorly to any of this.

* * *

Hannibal's already drawn breath by the time Will tells him _not_ to answer his question. Politely, he decides to humor him. It's no great effort for Hannibal. He knows precisely what it says about Will that he struggles to mention the good thoughts. It's vulnerability. Opening to his darkness is violence and sinister, but cracking the door open on his vulnerability risks letting Hannibal _in_. Completely. The issue is that Hannibal is beginning to believe he might wish to see past Will's general mask. He's finding Will Graham a fascinatingly complex man despite his weaknesses. There's potential in him, burning and rife. He's amateur. But with the proper guidance, the proper hand...

Silently Hannibal locks that away for now. He doesn't wish the extent of his influence to be seen, particularly not when Will feels so achingly vulnerable. Instead Hannibal listens, his expression politely sympathetic without crossing the line into pity. He notes Will's small glance towards the door and realizes in a heartbeat that he must be gentle in this. Hannibal considers his response carefully and then takes a slow step back so that Will may walk back towards the chairs if he so wishes.

"I am uncertain if this will bring comfort to you, but your dreams are not stupid. It's actually quite common. When forced to live through a traumatic event that yields an outcome difficult to properly internalize, we often imagine scenarios in which an alternate reality happened. The thought, if favorable, can grow to spark more _what ifs_. If she had lived, she would have been on her own. It's natural to wish to assume custody. To make up for what you perceive as a fault. Yet it is equally as natural to fantasize about giving her a better life than she'd had. Provided these fantasies don't take over your life, there's no danger in them. I, myself, have entertained thoughts like this in the past, when I've been unable to save someone. Even the best of surgeons sometimes lose patients. The first one, in particular, is often the worst. I would assume Ms. Hobbs was your first." Hannibal's voice is soft, understanding but not coddling. A serpent's hiss to _trust me_.

"The ache will lessen, Will. It might never truly leave you, but you will learn to manage it."

* * *

Does he _want_ to be 'quite common' in this? The words are meant to be helpful, to _normalize_. Will gets it. But hasn't Will always been an outlier of sorts? Lecter had summed him up well: always the new boy at school, always the stranger. He's kept that badge on even into adulthood. Will knows himself well enough to know that he has a rather large chip on his shoulder. Keeping his distance. Being alone. It's what's safe. It's what's familiar. It's _necessary_.

Abigail Hobbs had been alone. Carrying a dark devouring secret within her. Behind her smiles, underneath that hope of leaving the nest and going off to college and possibly escaping, she'd been terrified of her father killing her. Abigail may have participated, may have befriended the girls, but she'd done so as a means to an end. She'd wanted to ensure her own survival, so she had adapted and had sacrificed someone else's daughter. (This is what Will believes.)

He notices Lecter retreat some in walking away. Will has a clear path to his former chair. He also has a clear path to the patient exit door. Will could leave. It's tempting. Even as they make strides in forming that therapeutic relationship, even as Lecter proves that he's able to tolerate the darkness and then possibly navigate it, blowing him off remains a real option. Will could maybe convince Jack that he was okay and didn't need the weekly tune ups...

But Lecter’s words, his tone... It's a resonating pleasant sound to Will's ears. Lecter can relate on a professional level to the experience... So Will ventures back to the chair and all but collapses into it. It seems less important to behave and he lets his head fall back, his eyes shutting and he rubs at his face once.

"You going to save me, Doctor Lecter?" Will muses. On the surface, it's Will's trademark sarcasm, but he doesn't quite manage to infuse the necessary attitude in it.

* * *

There is a moment between breaths where Hannibal wonders if Will is going to leave. He looks like he might. A wild animal caught between two extremes, between safety and freedom, and Hannibal watches, silently enjoying the level of distress he can make out from as close as he is. Yet as Will looks at him again, he seems to come to some sort of understanding and though he looks almost uncertain when he turns away, he begins to walk back to the chair. Hannibal allows himself a smile, the look in his eye pleased as Will makes the choice he'd hoped, and only once Will is properly seated again does Hannibal turn and follow after him.

He makes the return look unhurried, like there's no urgency in this. They're simply having conversations, after all. Hannibal sits once more in his own seat, lowering himself down with his hands on the arms of his chair. Once seated, he leans back in his seat and crosses one leg over the other, the picture of casual. For while there's a dire, near-sarcastic note in Will's voice, Hannibal can sense the desperation in it and if a casual posture keeps Will from spooking, he will humor this.

"No, Will. If you believe you need saving, that is something I can only give you the skills to do yourself. But that doesn't mean that you are alone in this. The onus may be on you, but if you need me to be your paddle to keep your path straight, that is why I'm here. Your inertia may get you where you need to go, but you aren't alone." One look at Will tells Hannibal that this is a state he finds himself in quite often. He watches the exhausted picture that Will makes, watches as he rubs at his face, the picture of spiritual fatigue. Such a sad man, wrapped in chains of his own choosing.

"Where do you go, Will? When stress becomes a gaping maw in your mind, where do you root yourself to find comfort? Some imagine a place from childhood. Others construct their ideal place. What do you do?"

* * *

Will tells himself he needs all the allies he can get. Doctor Lecter is an ally. Alana Bloom is an ally, although her delicacy in handling him can be nothing short of irritating at times. Beverly Katz... is more of a potential friend, but Will thinks she could also do the trick if he ever sought her out. Plenty of people get therapy. Will doesn't even know if they are really having therapy anyway. It feels more like conversations with the occasional suggestion thrown in. But it's not bad. It's not bad at all, and so maybe it's fine if he sets up camp here on Lecter's shores.

He's heard Lecter sit down as well, returning to their original starting positions. Maybe it's the wine loosening him up or maybe it's a catharsis from his admissions, but Will lets his head stay resting back, his eyes closed in resignation. There will be no saving for him. He knows this. Hannibal Lecter knows this too. Even so, Lecter doesn't berate or belittle him. Instead, the Doctor claims he's not alone in this. And oh, it takes a great amount of effort to _not_ snort at that assertion. Because he _is_ alone in his head and in his dreams and nightmares. He _is_ alone with his imagination, with his darkness, but perhaps Lecter will at least provide an ear. A paddle?

"I close my eyes and wade out into the quiet of the stream. I go fishin'," Will answers. He doesn't even think how podunk it likely sounds to the impeccably dressed shrink. "That's where I've imagined teaching her to fish."

* * *

What a weary man Will Graham is, cloaked in the stress of his own mind, wrapped tightly in the knowledge of what he deems to be his calling. Hannibal wonders how far Will might allow himself to bend. If the risk of breaking is looming, somehow he doubts that Will is a man who will willingly draw back if the threat becomes too great. He's the type of man to throw himself headlong and suffer the consequences. Perhaps more now, as now he's beginning to realize that he has a lifeline. Hannibal Lecter, _Doctor_ Lecter, encouraging, not afraid of his darkness, not willing to live Will's life for him, but directing his mind, assisting him with the weight upon his shoulders. Hannibal won't be surprised when Will tries to push himself beyond what he can handle merely because he believes that Hannibal will be there to cushion the landing. And after this conversation, with so many opportunities offered to him, Hannibal will do just that.

He listens as Will speaks, and Hannibal silently admires the way Will's head remains tipped back. He's showing his throat. Perhaps neither of them are animals, but the irony is not lost on Hannibal. Perhaps Will has seen the depths and depravity of humanity. Perhaps his life has been in danger before. Yet here he is, willingly baring his throat to the most dangerous creature he's ever allowed himself to consider. Hannibal doesn't smile; he is not so gauche. Yet he does allow himself a small thread of amusement as he sits there, watching the budding hope across from him.

"You took her to your safe place," Hannibal says, and he allows himself to sound somewhat surprised. In reality, he considers revisiting his earlier train of thought. _Would_ he make a deal...? It's not something to risk. Not until Hannibal knows. It's a possible angle. "A quiet stream. No one else around save those you invite. I can't think of a better place to urge you to seek solace. Though I do wonder... how often is Ms. Hobbs there with you?"

* * *

This isn't what Will necessarily _wants_ to be talking about, but Lecter hasn't even strong-armed him into it. Maybe he's just tired of keeping it all in. It's been _months_ and for whatever reason the pull of Abigail Hobbs remains strong. In trying to understand a sensitive psychopath, he'd gotten so deep into Hobbs' head. He can still hear Jack's voice yelling at him, ' _then what kind of crazy is he_?' That perversion for his daughter, that inability to let her go, and then funneling such a desire into other Mall of America type girls. It had haunted Will. But if Will had saved _her_ it would have been a success for him. Maybe it even would have made all his suffering for Jack _worth it_ because the Minnesota Shrike had been the case that had really ramped up his consulting.

It hasn't been much of a party since helping out Jack Crawford. Will would rather talk _at_ students about deranged people than experience the cases themselves... Stammets' mycellium feasting on bodies, a desperate woman's attempt to _make a_ family, a creator of angels, Budge and his instrumental addition to the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra's brass section, a totem pole formed of corpses that destroyed the maker's own legacy and now the Eye... Will's seen a lot of shit. Abigail being imagined (okay, sometimes hallucinated) into his own "safe place" isn't that far out there, but he supposes he should probably try to let it go. That's honestly what he's expecting Lecter to get to... but the Doctor doesn't.

The question addressed to Will has Will finally opening his eyes and swallowing. He rubs at his face before lifting his head off the chair and looking at the seated man across from him, an apprehensive and wary expression on his face. "Is there an acceptable number you're looking for?" Will is evading the question, but he's not entirely certain he wants to admit how frequently he talks with her. It's at least a few times per week, but Will has the feeling that that's a few times too many. He's sure everyone else would think that.

* * *

This line of questioning is not entirely for Will's benefit. Perhaps Hannibal should be more subtle in this, but he's confident that there is no way that Will can understand his real motivations behind asking. Will is likely going to assume he's concerned over the number of times that Will sees the Hobbs girl, but he's not. Instead he's curious. He makes deals at his own leisure; Hannibal has no quota. He _writes_ the quota. He works when he sees fit to as his work is the definition of quality over quantity. He weeds out the weak and hones potential to a fine art form. He'd seen it in Matthew Brown, and he'd seen it in many more before him. He takes his time; he does his job _properly,_ and he expects the same of those who report to him. Yet despite the seeds of chaos he's sown across his practice (he's got more than one person now contemplating murder or suicide or well on their way to making a deal) Will Graham is the man who stands out to him now.

He wants to know how important Abigail Hobbs is to him. Would he make a deal for her life in the end? It's a possibility, but the concept leaves Hannibal feeling mildly underwhelmed. Will Graham is an intriguing man and preying upon his desperation over the shade of a girl he hadn't known seems wasteful when it comes to acquiring a deal. Hannibal has seen true potential in Will. It's there in his empathy, in his darkness, in the vibrant, volatile, fragile state of his mind he carries with him like a crushing weight. To simply resort to an emotional appeal with this man would be unfortunate, but at best, it can serve as a back-up plan if need be, so he needs to know.

Sure enough, Will suspects nothing. He looks at Hannibal warily, and Hannibal finds himself somewhat disappointed to see the way Will stops craning his neck back. It had been a pleasant sight for the moment, rife with symbolism. Now Hannibal merely looks at him, appraising, and Will's tentative question is enough to draw a small hint of mirth to Hannibal's eyes.

"Not at all. It merely tells me how far deeply you've let her in. You have allowed fantasy and imagination to claim their space. Not in reality, but in the safe haven of your mind. Provided you have no delusions that she is alive, I see no harm in sharing your stream with Ms. Hobbs." Hannibal studies Will closer for a moment and then leans in, folding his hands on his lap. "I'm aware that it will take you some time to truly believe it, Will, but I am not here to damn you. Everything you tell me here is completely confidential unless you consent to the release of information. We're simply having conversations."

* * *

He should be trying to get a better handle on things. He's got an opportunity here (free therapy and all) and he should take it. Will knows Abigail Hobbs is just a pit fall. It's a trap waiting to spring. She's dead. She's a defeat for him. He'd killed a killer but there's no victory for a family was destroyed in the process. And the psychopaths keep coming, of course. She's a temptation. He needs... Needs to focus on reality. Needs to rein himself in. To figure out how to be better. At least that's what he _should_ do.

But Hannibal Lecter seems more than cordial about the entire thing. Somehow. Will wants to suspect some hidden motive, but he can't find it. Lecter seems fine about it. As long as Will isn't delusional, that is and while his brain was inflamed, yeah reality blurred, but Will thinks he's got lines scratched down separating the unreal from the real. He hopes at least.

"You don't treat me like one of your usual patients," Will suddenly says, sitting up a little straighter. Maybe he doesn't want to be simply naive about it or maybe it's a blatant subject change. Probably both. Challenging anyone is more his style. "Do you want to be my _friend_ , Doctor Lecter?" It's said with incredulity, but Will has sensed a growing interest in him... Friendship with his psychiatrist seems like a bizarre thing, but Will doesn't exactly have a large repertoire of friends.

* * *

Such a wary creature, this man. As Hannibal watches, he observes the slight twitches in Will's expression. He observes the way Will doesn't seem certain of Hannibal (wise) or of himself. Resting where he is, hands clasped over his lap, the picture of casual interest, Hannibal allows Will to piece together his current reality at his own leisure. As Will is not officially a patient, there is no official time where his session is set to end, and so Hannibal has all the time in the world. Literally. He simply waits for Will to step around his statement cautiously, waits for him to make up his mind, and when Will's mind is finally made up and he blurts out his response, Hannibal finds himself mildly intrigued by this odd man, so quick to deflect.

There's a smile somewhere behind his eyes that doesn't make it to his lips as he considers Will's question and then leans back in his seat once more. The fact that Will sounds incredulous over the possibility that Hannibal could enjoy his company enough to want to be his friend doesn't escape his notice.

"Is such an outcome really so shocking?" He challenges right back, his tone both polite and casual. He speaks with a detachment intended to make Will feel as if _he_ is the one who has made an odd observation. "I do not encourage active friendship with my clients, Will. To become friends with typical clients risks the loss of objectivity and therefore insufficient care. Yet I do believe in maintaining a rapport with those who wish one."

Hannibal spreads his hands then, slow, the picture of openness. "And I cannot claim that I do not find you interesting. Or that I do not find your insight thought-provoking. It is the price of interaction, I suspect. One risks seeing more in another than initially intended. Would you agree?"

* * *

Lecter looks unruffled by his assertion (accusation), but Will can't remember the Doctor ever having looked bothered by anything he's said. Yet. Will is still expecting the other shoe to drop. There's no way Lecter is just this well adjusted to deal with all the darkness and death. It's a little too convenient, isn't it? A man like him finding a therapist who is more than able to stomach all his untasty thoughts. There's an itch. Some instinct that Will has about Lecter, but... But maybe he's just too damn paranoid for his own good. Too cynical.

' _Is such an outcome really so shocking?'_ Will is opening his mouth to retort that yes, yes it is. They have very little in common. He knows what kind of car Lecter drives. He knows the divide in socioeconomic status, or moreso Will's choice to live like a recluse, the equivalent of a crazy cat lady but with dogs. He can picture Hannibal Lecter going to the theatre, to the opera, to art galleries, engaging in small talk, his foreign accent, his somewhat exotic looks attracting admirers of both sexes. He was the type of man who had affairs, but never had it negatively impact him, he probably held dinner parties that Will would have stuck out like a sore thumb--

Stop.

Will flushes. Lecter's tone borders on almost dismissive but still polite. ' _Maintaining a rapport_ ' is so fucking clinical it echoes in his head. Has he misread...? No. He couldn't. He's good at reading people. Will's eyes flick away, his mind racing through all of their interactions. Lecter had helped him with his coat last session and Will could have sworn his touch lingered. The wine. Will's certain he's the last appointment so if it runs over...

"I'm not officially your client," Will shoots back. "Do you think your objectivity would suffer if we were to become friendly or am I just projecting?" Will swallows, tensing as he looks up again. If he's misinterpreted he's fucking bolting. Screw Lecter. He'll find another shrink if he has to.

* * *

Such a neurotic man, Will Graham. In the panicked, embarrassed moments that follow his response, Hannibal uses Will's immediate distraction to do some admiring of his own. Will retreats into his own head, undoubtedly backpedaling and trying to figure out if he'd overstepped (as Hannibal had intended) and Hannibal takes the moment to study Will. He can see Will's eyes open, staring intensely and fixedly _away_ from him as his mind races and works wonders. Hannibal's own eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and as he watches the micro-movements of Will's eyes and the distress building, he has to admit that he enjoys the turn the conversation has taken.

Will Graham is far more perceptive than he'd assumed, but he's very much like a wild, anxious creature snapping at a threat instead of a predator slowly stalking. Nevertheless, Hannibal finds this new side of Will nothing short of interesting. He can't deny that he's curious how Will is going to respond to Hannibal being as dismissive as he had been. So when Will's expression solidifies, Hannibal's eyes glint briefly in interest before he affixes a more polite expression on his face. That Will almost snaps his response is not a surprise, but what _is_ surprising is how quickly Will rushes to fill in the blanks Hannibal had left. Interesting. He purposefully hadn't mentioned that Will wasn't a true client merely to see if _he_ would. Once again, Hannibal is impressed.

He takes care to soften his posture, to keep his expression mild. He does everything but hold his hands up and softly whisper, 'easy... easy,' to calm Will down. Instead he offers Will a small smile, barely more than a quirk of his lips, but it appears genuine.

"On the contrary. It is not my objectivity I fear for when I consider our conversations, but that I believe I find you more engaging than I should. I'm certain you have others commenting on your unique insight. Admittedly I am not exempt from my curiosity, but it is more than that. You're not projecting," Hannibal adds, and trails off, intentionally leaving just enough unsaid to pique interest.

* * *

More than ever, Will is regretting his poor impulse control. The realization had just struck him and he'd opened his mouth and blurted it right out, any filter be damned. He's done the same thing with Jack a few times and it had got him chewed out. Maybe he hadn't wanted to admit it a moment ago, but Will had also been curious to see if he could fluster Lecter. Turns out, nope, not at all. He'd wanted to change the topic, but this topic is infinitely more embarrassing. Is swapping vulnerability for awkwardness any better? Fuck if he knows.

Will hasn't seemed to piss Lecter off at least. Doctor Lecter looks as non threatening as ever, as okay as ever, like Will isn't potentially crossing lines and putting his own foot in his mouth. A small cursory smile is given to him but then Hannibal replies and Will immediately zones in on the part where Hannibal claims to find him more "engaging" than he should. Immediately Will is straightening and his eyes widening as he tries to discern Hannibal's meaning. Curiosity about his unique insight but more than that...?

"What... In what capacity?" Will asks and his voice is a little higher than he'd like so he purposefully clears his throat and tries again. Christ, why does he feel this nervous? Like he's a kid again hoping to not be be picked last in gym class. "You mentioned curiosity and I can't help but think of academic writing or something. That's... that's usually what it is. Professional curiosity toward me." Will runs a hand through his hair. It's long enough that it's getting curly and a little wild and he can't help but wonder why he's even breaching this topic. It's not like him and yet here he is...

* * *

Very interesting. Hannibal studies the way Will straightens his posture, almost expectant, and as he does so, he thinks back on their conversations. He thinks about Will's defensiveness, his bluntness, his uncertainty. He thinks about the way Will had opened up, how he had appeared to be trying to shock Hannibal into dismissing him or scaring him. Perhaps a defensive method to keep Hannibal away? Or perhaps more. He thinks on Will's candidness over the dreams, how Will has seemed to be challenging him all through this conversation. From the bluntness over the wine to the attempts to scandalize or shock. Hannibal had assumed them merely dismissive, irritated acts of impatience. He'd not considered that they might have been subtle, uncertain tests. Now he is.

He studies the way Will looks at him, though keeps his own posture open and engaging. Will's voice is high before he clears his throat and he begins to fiddle with his hair. Nervous gestures, which leads Hannibal to believe his answer in this actually matters in some way. He's getting a picture here, something interesting, as he'd never assumed Will's interests might lie on this path. Yet now that he's seeing it, the squirming, the awkwardness, the near-hopefulness, he's wondering if he's correct. Perhaps he's simply passed Will's tests and so now there is more to lose if Will believes he's destroyed his chances at normal conversation, but Hannibal believes it is more.

"I would be lying were I to claim that I have no academic curiosity regarding you, but I hope you'd believe that I would not risk abusing your trust like that. I am not a man to claim interest merely to manipulate a patient - or a guest, as the case may be - into an academic interview. No, my curiosity is both professional and personal. Your insight is engaging, but there is more to it than that. As you said, you are not officially my client. We are simply having conversations. I find you pleasant company, Will. You have a sardonic wit I find engaging and you aren't one to shy away from your demons as so many are," Hannibal pauses to let that sink in, though also to smirk inwardly.

"If I expressed an interest in wanting to be your friend - or at least friendly - would the notion appall you?"

* * *

The question is out. The box opened. No going back. Will can do nothing but wait for Lecter's response. He tries to tell himself that he's not wrong, that he had sensed _something_ there. Surely he's not this desperate or delusional, right? He's never actively sought out a friend before. At least not in his adult life. Usually people just came up to him and he tolerated their presence and small talk was had. It wasn't horrible, but it was an experience Will didn't exactly long for. He's very much aware that his brusque nature doesn't give way to socializing with ease and yet people like Bev and Alana still tried...

But Hannibal Lecter, thus far, has weathered him too, so maybe...? Maybe they could be friends. Stranger things have happened. He isn't an official patient (whatever, semantics). As much as he hates to admit it, Will knows the picture he's giving off. His body language, his tone, stammering through his words. He feels like he's back in high school and struggling with talking to his lab partner who had smiled prettily and asked him to help her study.

Professional _and_ personal curiosity. Will is aware that Lecter's answer somehow makes him feel... _Good_. There's some tiny part that craves approval, that wants Hannibal Lecter to want him. He feels hotter at the realization, stomach uneasy. When Lecter compliments his wit and fortitude to face things head on, he does like hearing the words, but more than that he believes them. Will also wants to vehemently deny such feelings, to squash them because... He's too old to have a crush on anyone let alone his not-official shrink.

"As I'm sure you've noticed, not much appalls me Doc-- _Hannibal_ ," Will says. He forces his hands to rest on his lap and stop fidgeting. See. He can be an adult. "If anything, I'm sure I am going to horrify you at some point, drag you into this darkness…”

* * *

This is definitely not the direction that Hannibal had assumed the conversation would go when he'd welcomed Will into his office that evening. From speaking of dreams, to old unsolved cases, to exploring Will's fascination with his muralist, they have been around the block with topics, yet this is the one that serves to interest Hannibal the most. His earlier suspicions about using emotion and regret and guilt to foster a deal from Will fade away. Thoughts of Ms. Hobbs shift out of his field of vision like sifting sand. She is still a possibility if he needs one but as he looks at Will, at the gentle fidgeting and the telltale signs, he begins to suspect something far more interesting.

It isn't that he's never had patients try to hide their attraction to him before. With dependent personalities, it's a weekly occurrence. He'd never expected this from _Will Graham_ though. Quintessential antisocial personality, rough around the edges, clipped and gruff, likely somewhere either on the spectrum or using tips and tricks from those who _are_ in order to avoid people. Hannibal hadn't pegged him as a man looking for romantic interest, but as he studies Will and thinks back on their conversations that evening, on the way Will had blurted out as many 'horrifying' things as he could have, Hannibal begins to understand. He sets Ms. Hobbs aside completely. He won't need her.

"One does not actively seek out this line of work to skirt around the darkness in the world," Hannibal says softly, warmth and the hint of a smile in his eyes. He sets his shoulders back, widening his posture as if baring more of it to Will. Hannibal's quite aware of how to look open and trustworthy, and he hadn't missed that Will had called him by his first name. He doesn't mention it, a silent note that he doesn't object. "Typically one enters psychology to make sense of what might be in their heads. Psychiatry is a medical angle of the same. Clinical psychiatrists and psychologists are often privy to the darkest parts of humanity, Will. If I may be so bold, don't concern yourself with dragging me into the darkness with you. I can assure you, I go willingly. Though I do understand the concern," Hannibal continues, sympathetic but not pitying.

"It isn't easy to find someone willing to allow darkness its place to exist. They believe it needs to be fixed, to be controlled. But what if darkness is not something that can be set aside? To be faced with that struggle constantly... I can understand why one might be reluctant to believe a claim like mine."

* * *

Will doesn't know why he's trying to suddenly be so considerate. Maybe it's because of Alana and how she hadn't coped with his "instability." Scratch that, Will's positive it's because of Alana Bloom. God, she was beautiful and smart and yeah, it had been a fool's hope that they would ever work out (Will's not that much of a catch, he knows it). He had managed to get a kiss and it had been rather nice. Soft and curvy, she had felt nice to hold onto, nice to taste... But she wanted to fix him and they both knew it. Not a good recipe for romance.

But Hannibal Lecter isn't Alana Bloom. And Will shouldn't be trying to protect his fully capable psychiatrist. It's not like anything would come of it. Will can't even imagine confessing his supposed attraction. It's bad enough that they're talking about being friends. Christ, he'd already referred to Lecter as "Hannibal" and the man hadn't minded. Hadn't said anything about it so Will assumes it's not a big deal. He's being far too transparent is the thing. Will swallows when Hannibal answers exactly as Will expected him to.

He's essentially placated and Will can't even get pissed off about it because he started them down this path and Hannibal sounds _nice_ and possibly fond of his show of concern. And then... ' _They believe it needs to be fixed, to be controlled'._ Will can't help but give a small snort and then a nod. Lecter's words are too close to the truth.

"You have no idea... I had a thing for Alana, right? We kissed once. I could see she wanted to. And I'm not saying that out of any sort of machismo, but when we did, I could literally feel her desire to heal me, to _fix_ me." Will sighs. "Not that I blame her. She's seen me at my very worst. No one wants to be involved with someone unstable, someone who can easily get into the heads of killers. A part of me thought, you know, now that the Encephalitis had been treated that I'd have another shot, but..." Will shrugs. "I don't think romance is in the cards for me." Shit. This isn't a topic he wants to be talking about so Will very blatantly glances down at his watch.

It's been an hour.

* * *

Perhaps Will hasn't been trying to protect him, but he _has_ been trying to screen him. It's likely for no other reason than Will himself. Hannibal can understand. The desolate and downtrodden learn to expect more of the same. Sometimes they throw up fronts to protect themselves, and Hannibal doesn't doubt that this is what Will has been doing. Yet this new shift, the snapped mention of friendship... he also understands enough to know that if Will is mentioning it, he's gotten over a hurdle left behind. He's eked through a crack in Will's mind, a shield he uses to save himself from the rest of the world. A good man would be honored. Hannibal is not a good man, but despite his current species, nor is he inherently a _bad_ one. He views this as an unexpected opportunity, as despite his idle goals, he does find this man interesting. Will's special gifts aside, he is a compelling individual.

So when Will snorts quietly in agreement and then launches into a story that he'd not told Hannibal about before, Hannibal goes quiet. His eyebrows lift slightly at Alana's mention but he doesn't react beyond that, instead giving Will his clear attention. And as Hannibal listens, he comes to some very simple conclusions: Will is lonely but believes the worst of himself; he wants connection but is suspicious when it arrives; and this moment between them - given the way that Will reacts when he mentions romance - is not as platonic as Will had likely wished him to believe. Hannibal can feel his own interest sharpen and as he studies the way that Will glances down at his watch, he considers overplaying his hand.

But no. Hannibal leans back slowly in his seat and folds his hands over his lap, glancing from Will's watch back up to Will's face. "If you have someplace you need to be, please do not feel like it would be rude to excuse yourself. Your time is valuable," Hannibal says politely. Then he inclines his head. "Though I would leave you with this thought: It is simple to assume intent and outcome based on past experiences. I certainly do it myself. But it might behoove you to not shut certain doors on your life entirely. You are still young and you'll never know how people might respond. I, for one, find myself looking forward to speaking with you next week. The darkness you walk in casts shadows, yes, but not everyone prefers the light."

Hannibal stands then, though not to leave. He holds up a single finger to forestall Will and then steps to his desk. He pulls a card out of the holder and then takes a thin pen from his desk, writing something down and then walking it over to Will. "You have my office number already, but you were not privy to my personal line. Normally I only give an emergency number to at-risk patients, but I see no issue in offering a personal one to a friend. Please, take it."

* * *

Will has a date with Jack Daniels tonight. He's going to drink himself silly, play fetch with dogs and then flop into bed. Because this all, this all... Fuck. He's said too much. Admitted too much and yes, Doctor Hannibal Lecter is being gracious and accommodating and not jumping on anything he's said, but Will has the distinct impression Hannibal _knows_ now. And Will hadn't even known until this evening. He doesn't do crushes. He doesn't like surprises either, internal or otherwise. Will hadn't planned on having this occur. He has enough to deal with. He doesn't want some blossoming attraction/curiosity toward--

Hannibal says his time is valuable. That he can go. Will _should_ have just got up and left. He wouldn't have hesitated to do so last week and yet Will is staying seated and waiting for Hannibal to release him. It doesn't get much better as Hannibal leaves him with a parting comment -- that he shouldn't necessarily expect failure and 'shut certain doors'... And that Hannibal is _looking_ _forward_ to talking again next week. Will isn't even in the right headspace to deal with Hannibal's statement about darkness and light. That's for later.

Will's about to get up and collect his jacket when Hannibal holds up a finger to still him. Will waits, a little curious, a little unsure, but a small business card is then handed to him, a phone number inked down. Will takes it and puts it in his wallet. It's not the emergency line, but a personal line. So, this is them on their way to being friends _?_

"Yeah, okay, I'll text you mine later, I guess," Will offers and gets up. He makes a beeline for his jacket and puts it on himself. He's not letting Hannibal help him this time, thanks. They part with nothing more said between them and Will is glad for the cool air as he escapes the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You, uh, want to instruct me, do you?" Will asks and he can hear the desperate edge in his voice. (He still doesn't care.) "You're already in a position of power in your career, that follow over to your bedroom, Hannibal?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here we are again. Happy New Year! ✧٩(ˊωˋ*)و✧ ♥
> 
> While the main pairing of this story is Hannibal/Will, there is some sexual but nonromantic Hannibal/Matthew'ness in this chapter (and likely will be a bit more coming up), so just a heads up. Historical inaccuracies exist, too bc hey, we didn't live in the late 50's/early 60's and it's not really important for this story.
> 
> Some demon lore blatantly taken from the show Supernatural, but we've tweaked a few things here and there.
> 
> Matthew/Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

_'The darkness you walk in casts shadows, yes, but not everyone prefers the light.'_

Hannibal's words echo in his mind, a caress of silk that Will wants to rub against and experience more of. It almost feels like a promise. (Will kind of wants it to be...) God, he hopes he can get a grip on himself before next week. He needs to stop thinking about Hannibal Lecter, wondering how things might change between them, if he could possibly open up and talk about _everything_ that swirls around in his head.

Does Hannibal _not_ prefer the light? Will thinks Hannibal had been speaking about himself. Hannibal has yet to ever shy away from anything he's said... Olmstead, the Ripper, his cases, murder, his fanciful thoughts about Abigail... Nothing had shaken the Doctor up. Will had only been considered interesting and apparently engaging.

The drive home is uneventful and does help a little in way of calming Will down. He focuses on the familiar turns as the city disappears behind him. When he gets home he lets his dogs out and grabs a bottle of Jack and drinks it straight. It burns but it's a nice distraction. His dogs run around happily, tails wagging, content in a way Will honestly is envious of. Some people weren't meant for happiness. Will knows this. He throws a ratty tennis ball for a good fifteen minutes, letting the more energetic dogs get some brief cardio in. Will feels warmer and less antsy by the time he returns inside. He strips down to his boxers and undershirt, climbs into bed and hopes for a dreamless night when he closes his eyes.

No such luck.

He dreams of the Eye, the silo, but he's sewn into the mural this time. He's drugged, there's no pain. It's all right, though. Will is simply a piece of the art now, a piece of the puzzle fitting in. Belonging. A sense of completion. But then something shifts - changes - and he's conscious of another, some presence, one that doesn't belong, one that hadn't been there during the investigation. Some intruder. It upsets Will - throws him off - but he can't move lest he tear himself from it.

He debates it. He could--

Black eyes watch him, curiously.

"You know, you're going to be devoured," the voice says and it's not a tone of warning, but one of amusement. It's a male. Younger. Oily. Will tries to search through his mind to identify it (it's familiar somehow, _think_ ) but his mind is sluggish from the heroin. He struggles against the stitches, eyes frantic in their search for the stranger, but his limbs are heavy and he's too weak. It's futile. Dread settles into his bones. He has an inclination where this is going and Will feels the panic and excitement...

"Wha-what?" He croaks out.

"It's okay, precious. Go back to sleep."

The man pours gasoline over him and the other bodies, his steps purposeful. A match is lit and dropped and Will knows the creature is watching him - them - be consumed by flames. He wonders if God is watching them. The heat is sweltering, unrelenting-- Will wakes with the smell of burning flesh stinging his nostrils. He's panting, sweaty and chilled as he sits up.

He thinks of Hannibal's number in his wallet, but he grabs a towel instead.

*** * ***

Matthew drives back to Baltimore, the radio blaring as he whistles his own conflicting tune. He takes the corners a little too fast, he blatantly speeds and he wears a smirk the entire way. Life is good.

"Will Graham, you are an interesting fella," Matthew says to himself as he heads to Hannibal's private residence. They don't need to sleep but it wouldn't surprise him if Hannibal was anyway, for appearances. Guy probably had a robe and all. Matching pajamas and everything. Maybe even a butler like Batman. He'd find out soon enough.

* * *

The walls of Hannibal's residence echo with the faint melodic strumming of orchestral violins. Its origin, when traced back to the source and not bouncing off of the favorable acoustics of the walls in the house, is Hannibal's study where an old record player plays a pristine record. It's as polished as everything else in Hannibal's home, from well-maintained and refurbished floors to the heavy desk in his study. The decor is the picture of uniquely balanced, certain rooms darker and stunning in their slightly darker aesthetic while others are opulent and light. Yet in most rooms in the house, he's made a point to leave certain decorative hints lying around. The intact skeletons of small (rare) creatures, the artful arrays of porcupine quills and dark red berries contrasted against darker decor, so the whites in the quills catch visual interest. The whole house is done in that way, normalcy hinting at something darker but never enough to properly garner suspicion. Hannibal enjoys the fact that no one understands, enjoys his little tongue-in-cheek moments when he has visitors over who comment, wide-eyed, on how beautiful the house is, unaware just how many 'animal' bones are not quite what they appear to be. He has the bones of a few extinct species in his study, and a few bones scattered about the house that have been carved and whittled down from their more recognizable state of being.

Hannibal doesn't visit every room that evening after Will's appointment ends. He visits the kitchen and dining room as he artfully cooks dinner, opening the stores in his freezer for the singularly special occasion of having a direction in which to take with Will Graham. Hannibal dines despite the fact he doesn't strictly need to. Maslow's hierarchy of needs no longer applies to him, and hasn't for many years. Yet it is difficult to shake certain habits and while Hannibal may not _need_ to eat, he enjoys the decadence and the proof of his skill in the kitchen. He eats alone, supping a pristine vintage as the record plays in the background, and his mind lingers on one thing only: Will Graham.

It's been some time since Hannibal has felt a draw to someone for reasons other than merely closing a deal. He understands untapped talent when he sees it. Randall Tier has it. So had Matthew Brown. Hannibal sees untapped potential in many but few make the jump the way Matthew had. As Hannibal considers Will and his antisocial peace in the face of darkness, he wonders whether Will's fascination is all talk or if he could be persuaded for more. The notion sends a small thrill through Hannibal's spine, something pleasantly chilled-yet-warm. While he's corrupted many, none since Matthew Brown have truly caught his attention, and Matthew only had due to his brutality and his eagerness. His deal had been very specific. Hannibal had been mentor and teacher to him for a decade or more, directing, coaxing, encouraging, and in return, Hannibal had been gifted certain things that no longer reside in his freezer. Artistic freedom and a cut of the profits, so to speak...

He smiles at his mental joke but it doesn't take him long to allow his thoughts to drift back to Will Graham. Initially just a darkness but the more Hannibal speaks with him, the less he's considering a deal. Deals are simple and once people get what they want, often times he loses interest. Yet Will is different. He's not one to squander a deal, Hannibal suspects. But more than that, Hannibal is beginning to realize that beyond Ms. Hobbs' return or a different desire, Will craves closeness. Someone to understand. A partner to guide him through the dark who won't be terrified away when he embraces it. Hannibal hasn't talked to him enough to guarantee he's correct, but given that he'd given Will his number, he knows he's made the first step. Hannibal dines in satisfied silence and when he retires to bed that evening, it is to thoughts of Will and how their next session might go.

*** * ***

While he doesn't need to sleep, that doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy the sensation still. Hannibal is old and there are times where briefly ceasing to consciously exist is preferable to the alternative. Yet Hannibal's body doesn't crave sleep the way a human’s does and so he is a self-proclaimed light sleeper. So when he hears the sound of a car pulling into his driveway and glances over to check the time, Hannibal frowns curiously and eases out of bed.

He doesn't often have visitors at night but it isn't unheard of for an emergency. While he's irritated over it, Hannibal stands and reaches over for a maroon robe with golden trim to fasten around his waist. He's a little sluggish from having been woken but he quietly eases his slippers on, takes a second to fix his hair in the connected en suite bathroom and then wanders downstairs.

Hannibal is curious up until he reaches the front door. Normally he would wait for whoever it is to knock, but once he approaches his door, he's suddenly aware of the presence close by. Normally he'd not clue in but seeing as he'd seen the man only hours before, Hannibal's lips thin. He gives serious consideration to not entertaining this moment, but in the end his curiosity wins out. Hannibal opens the door, expression mild, and he lifts an eyebrow.

"Matthew," he says. "It's quite late. To what do I owe this repeated visit?"

* * *

He doesn't have to knock. There's no butler, but there is Hannibal Lecter in a robe and slippers. Matthew is amused and he lets a lazy smile hang on his lips. He's not surprised by Hannibal's attire or that Hannibal was likely in bed at the very least. Sometimes Matthew sleeps. Human things are comforting. Just like eating and fucking. He doesn't need to do those, but they're fun and they help pass the time. Plus, some habits are hard to break. Demons and vices sort of go hand in hand, don't they?

Matthew is still in the same attire from earlier. Grey trousers, grey dress shirt, all tailored to perfection. Shoes a little less shiny from his trip out to Wolf Trap, but that's okay. He looks good, feels good and Hannibal looks a little less than pleased. Perfect.

"Couldn't help myself," Matthew starts, voice all earnest. "That rather interesting patient of yours. Will Graham? Did some digging. Headed out to his humble abode..." Matthew raises his eyebrows. He's fairly certain Hannibal will let him in now.

* * *

This is not a pleasant surprise. Much as Hannibal had enjoyed Matthew's earnest behavior before, it has been a long time since they'd interacted properly and much of the deference has apparently fallen by the wayside. It shouldn't be surprising; Matthew Brown has never actively responded well to authority. Before, Hannibal had been his contract holder, his mentor of sorts. In a sense, albeit a distant one, Hannibal is now his superior. His boss. Given the lazy smile on Matthew's lips, this isn't at all an issue to Matthew, and Hannibal feels some of his good mood ease. His frown is politely curious, ever the picture of grace. Yet even that almost fails when Matthew speaks.

Hannibal doesn't blink, doesn't so much as breathe despite the sudden flare of irritation in his chest. His first thought is that if Matthew has killed Will, he'll gut him himself, but he wants to believe that not even Matthew would be that reckless. So while his irritation is clear, Hannibal merely regards Matthew for a moment and then steps aside, holding the door open.

"Come in," he requests (though it's really an order).

Closing the door behind Matthew once he's inside, Hannibal leads the way towards the kitchen, though takes a detour into the sitting room instead. Then he sends Matthew a curious look. "Would you like something to drink?"

* * *

It had been easy enough to break into Will's vehicle and get his name and address from the car registration. A quick search on Matthew's phone and he'd learned even more. Will used to be a cop, but now taught classes at the FBI academy and a few nearby colleges. He'd been published a few times. Brilliant mind. Consulted on the more obscure and grizzly cases, but Freddie Lounds had a bone to pick with him. Maybe she was just being theatrical, but the fiery journalist seemed to think Will Graham was a bit of a loose cannon. Sure, there was the overkill on Hobbs - ten bullets - but she seemed to believe Will could _think_ like a killer because he _was_ one.

Time would tell and undoubtedly Hannibal would help. Hannibal had helped him, after all.

Matthew takes the "invitation" and comes in. He knows Hannibal is interested in what he has to say and he's happy to help out a friend. He slips off his shoes. He can have manners. Matthew follows Hannibal inside, taking in the furnishings and decor with little interest. It's still Hannibal and pretentious, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that is worth mentioning.

"Sure, a drink would be nice," Matthew answers as he plops down in an armchair, settling in and drumming his fingers on the arm rests. "Guy dreams about weird shit," Matthew comments. "I can see why you like him."

* * *

Hannibal's movements are perfectly controlled, both to ensure proper technique and to keep from lashing out and demanding to know everything that Matthew had done that evening. His thoughts drift on the conversation he'd had with Will, on thoughts of mutual control. He's politely quiet as he steps over to the selection of drinks on the mantle and he chooses an aged whiskey that he remembers is more to Matthew's taste. He refuses to carry the lager Matthew had once favored so many years ago; he's not quite that accommodating. Instead Hannibal brings him a solid three fingers of whiskey in a diamond-patterned tumbler. Hannibal passes it to Matthew, noting the lack of shoes with mild relief, and then he pours himself a glass of wine before walking to the armchair across from Matthew, taking his own seat.

It's taking most of his self-control to not lash out in irritation. He'd sent a single word of influence through the veil to pierce Will Graham's mind earlier that night. _Complete_. He'd been tempted to spy on his dreams, but he suspects that dreams given by demonic presence are more vivid, and Will is going to remember this one for the next session. So when Matthew mentions Will's _dreams_ , Hannibal's frown deepens. He makes no move to hide it.

"You manipulated his dreams?" Hannibal asks mildly. "You know what he is. You know how dangerous that could have been for you." It's not what Hannibal wants to ask, but patience _is_ one of his virtues. He isn't entirely certain that Will is still breathing.

* * *

Matthew knows he's possibly playing with fire here. Will Graham is Hannibal's new toy and Hannibal is a rather possessive dick at times. Well, actually, they all are. Demons aren't known for sharing, especially their human interests. Matthew can relate, once someone has caught his attention, they're his. He doesn't have any real designs on Will, but screwing with Hannibal holds a certain appeal. (Maybe he's a little curious, too. Just how fucked up is Will anyway?)

Hannibal brings him whiskey and not wine. This alone tells him enough. He's not going to be sent back. Hannibal isn't too pissed at him. At least not yet, but give him time. He's always had a knack for being grating but Hannibal is also very patient. Matthew has missed their interactions and he knows if he killed Will now Hannibal wouldn't be pleased. Matthew inclines his head in thanks and takes a sip, his eyes noticing Hannibal's frown at his admission.

"I didn't manipulate _much_ ," Matthew retorts. "I inserted myself into his little dream -- which, by the way, was delightfully messed up. Guy was naked, alive, and attached to a bunch of other corpses in a circle. All sewn together like some human knitting project." He takes another sip before grinning wickedly. "He didn't freak out until he noticed someone else was there. He didn't see me, but I poured gasoline and lit them all on fire. Poof, up in flames."

* * *

 _The eye_ , Hannibal thinks as Matthew speaks. Admittedly, had Hannibal not spoken to Will earlier that evening and been given a hint as to what the tangle of sewn bodies could mean, he'd likely have found himself as confused as Matthew appears now. Hannibal's not surprised that this is the form that Will's dreams have taken. _Complete_ , Hannibal had whispered through the veil, and complete, Will had. He finds himself vaguely irritated that the small lick of pride he feels is with Matthew present, and not with Will seated across from him. In a mildly petulant sense, he feels as though the experience has been taken from him, but he's not so petty as to toss Matthew out of his home (or back to Hell) for not knowing any better.

That particular certainty fades almost immediately when Matthew continues, though. Hannibal's gaze lifts somewhat sharply and his posture tenses just enough to rather blatantly showcase that he is _not_ pleased over this sudden addition. Dream manipulation is not particularly difficult, but there is a difference between manipulation and control. Manipulation offers a small suggestion - a phrase, an image, a presence - and allows the dreamer to work a dream (or, often, a nightmare) around the suggestion. Control is the act of changing the dream - of oppression. Often resulting in endless nightmares and keeping the dreamer submerged in horror, it's far less artful. What Matthew has done isn't _strictly_ control, but rather the fine line between it and manipulation. Yet that is not why he's displeased.

"You're aware that he's spiritually sensitive," Hannibal says, and his tone is sharper. "Could you not sense my whispers in his mind? One manipulation is one thing. Two in the same night, at the _same time?_ " Hannibal's lip curls. "You could have broken him."

* * *

Matthew doesn't dream anymore. None of his kind do and he actually misses it. He used to see such gruesome things, his dreaming mind had always been more creative somehow, more warped and free to create. It had almost been a treat to go to sleep and see what his subconscious created for him. Early on, Hannibal's influence had sharpened everything and given him focus and Matthew finds that he also sort of misses that too. But never in his wildest dreams could he have thought that the kind Doctor who had shown interest in him could be a demon. Doctor Hannibal Lecter had effortlessly charmed him and his family...

Hannibal is displeased but Matthew merely takes another sip of the whiskey and drinks in the sight of his mentor looking tense. At the mention of _breaking_ Will, Matthew scoffs, his free hand giving a gesture of “big deal.”

" _So_? They're practically engineered to be broken. I'm pretty sure this one is defective." It's now that Matthew gets up, placing his tumbler on a coaster on the side table and gesturing to Hannibal's own drink to be moved. He then proceeds to climb onto Hannibal's lap -- which is no easy feat because he's not exactly small. "He's obsessed with us, by the way. Went to his home. He has Ripper articles all around. Notes. Some keen insights too..."

* * *

Hannibal's lips thin in displeasure. While the general consensus _is_ that humans are made to be used and broken and manufactured into demons when possible, he has never directly subscribed to such a notion. He's not a slavering, mindless beast. While he does take pleasure in the sight of human agony (and general agony), he is selective. A screeching, pitiful, spineless creature begging for its life gives him no satisfaction, but seeing the mighty fall, fostering dependency, and shattering pride does. Then there is the rare occasion where Hannibal's manipulation doesn't break the stone he's been chipping away at, but instead releases a marvelous creature from within. Releasing the angel from inside, as so many erroneously say. Matthew Brown might be an irritating child, but in his own way, he falls under that heading. Hannibal didn't so much _create_ him as he did hone him, but he takes credit for making him better. Unfortunately that doesn't mean that Matthew isn't still a petulant, impertinent child by times, and Hannibal's expression flinches just enough to clearly state how displeased he is at Matthew dismissing Will so quickly.

Yet before he can properly issue his response, Matthew sets his glass aside and Hannibal hesitates in doing the same. His frown tilts down an extra degree, almost invisible. Anyone else wouldn't notice, but Hannibal had spent ten long years at Matthew's side. Matthew notices, he's sure, which is precisely why he stands. Hannibal sets his glass aside and within mere moments, Matthew has crossed the distance between them. Hannibal's only sign of displeasure is how clipped his sigh sounds, but he does maneuver enough to make Matthew's impulse possible. Hannibal tilts his head back just enough to look up at him, his hands on the armrests of the chair.

"You've much to learn," Hannibal says, with a bite to his voice.

"Your hand is still too heavy. You're more interested in breaking your toys than making them last. Genuine spiritual sensitivity is rare, Matthew. Christians assume they have the gift, but what they have are infestations of impertinent ghosts or personal mental illness. Will Graham is genuine. He is _not_ to be broken," he adds, more firmly, and on the emphasis, Hannibal's hands slide down to rest against Matthew's thighs. "But yes. I was aware that he knew of us, though perhaps not to that extent."

* * *

Hannibal allows Matthew to straddle him. It's been decades since they've been this close, but Hannibal is still a familiar body underneath him. Warm and firm, Hannibal is in decent shape and Matthew has an appreciation for it. He wouldn't say he's attracted to Hannibal -- the vessel Hannibal has created for himself isn't stereotypically attractive per se, but Matthew does like Hannibal's knowledge and prowess. They go way back, after all. Hannibal may be a pompous dick, but he'd been Matthew's gateway into the dark. Hannibal had befriended him at an impressionable time, Hannibal had mentored him and helped him. He owes it all to Hannibal. The knowledge kinda sucks, but Matthew doesn't owe anything to Hannibal. He's already given him his soul anyway.

Hannibal's advice is nothing he hasn't heard before. Matthew knows he lacks finesse, he lacks patience and that overarching vision thing -- all things Hannibal excels at. Probably why they were a good team back in the day. See, Matthew has enthusiasm. He has drive. Hannibal is good at the planning aspect, the execution of murder and mayhem. Matthew doesn't always like listening, doesn't care for all the rules, but obeying Hannibal had paid off. He's not that arrogant to think he could have gotten away with all the murder without Hannibal.

He listens to Hannibal. He hears the warning - no breaking Will Graham - and Matthew more than likely won't do anything _permanent_. He's not jealous of Will. Will is a _human._ Humans are meant to be played around with just like he had been. In time, when Hannibal is good and ready, he will offer Will a deal and Will would take it. They all do. He did. When Hannibal's hands come to rest on his thighs, Matthew sighs at the familiar touch. He blinks and his eyes bleed into his natural, demonic pure black. He smiles and rolls his neck, enjoying Hannibal's attention on him.

"Show me your eyes," Matthew murmurs and loops his arms around Hannibal's neck. "It's been so long since I've seen 'em."

* * *

It's been years since he's seen Matthew and so it's possible that a lot has changed, but Hannibal doubts it. Matthew had always been brazen even as a human, impulsive and impatient, his attention span rapt sometimes but nonexistent in others. Hannibal expects nothing less now, so when Matthew doesn't immediately continue to speak about Will and instead seems focused on _him_ , Hannibal isn't surprised. As irritated as he is that Matthew had risked Will, and as exasperating as it is to know that he'd sought Will out simply because he'd seen Hannibal's interest, it _is_ good to see Matthew. Hannibal isn't sure he'd go as far as to say he's missed him (as he has manipulated and mentored more than one human over the years) but Matthew's presence had been memorable. It feels comfortable to have that back, regardless of how difficult this man is.

Hannibal doesn't try to guess what has caught Matthew's attention. He only knows that Matthew looks rapt, and that something seems to relax in him when Hannibal's hands settle on his thighs. It's a light touch, a test perhaps, to discern the differences. Matthew looks similar to the way he had all those years ago (vanity does become them, after all) but minute details are difficult. Yet there's a familiarity in the touch, and Hannibal finds himself pleased, though that satisfaction fades into something genuinely curious when Matthew blinks his eyes and the whites of them bleed black.

Normally he finds demonic markers irritating and gauche - parlor tricks by low-class demons to scare the weak - and yet he has never seen Matthew Brown with black eyes. Hannibal studies him, how the darkness accentuates his features. Before he can say anything, Matthew's adding on his own request, his arms moving around Hannibal's neck, and the position is familiar. Perhaps, in a way, he _has_ missed Matthew, as he'd not have considered acquiescence for anyone else.

"Very well. Yours suit you," Hannibal offers, not intending to flatter. The aesthetics meet with his approval. "I'm impressed." The words are rare; it takes a _lot_ to impress Hannibal. And, as he looks up at Matthew and studies the darkness of his eyes, he taps into the edge of something _other_ within. While black had bled into Matthew's eyes, it's red that flows into his own at a leisurely crawl, eclipsing iris and fading pupil in an unearthly manner. He doesn't blink, letting the red take its time, and when he's fulfilled Matthew's request, Hannibal slides his hands up to fit to slim hips.

"Before we continue, I must inquire as to the state you left Will in. Is he alive?"

* * *

Black. Red. White. Demons can have three different colors of eyes which correspond to their rank. Black is for the lowest and most populous (hey, gotta start somewhere), red is the next higher up, and white is rare. Matthew has never seen a white-eyed demon, but Hannibal had no reason to lie about them existing. Matthew really doesn't run into too many demons anyway. They aren't the most friendly of sorts as when they do get together, more often than not a pack of demons get into trouble and attract the wrong kind of attention. A hunter? No thanks. A higher ranking demon coming a to drag their asses back to Hell? Nuh uh. His last ten years as a human he'd learned enough from Hannibal. Matthew may have made a deal knowing full well he'd end up going to Hell, but he was going to be damn certain he didn't simply rot down there. He would become a demon and do whatever was necessary to get back up.

And he had.

And Hannibal had only saw him once since coming topside. Matthew had specifically chose to possess his nephew (keep it in the family and all). His nephew looked very similar and Hannibal had helped him fix a few details before they parted ways. Hannibal had left him with the farewell comment of: ' _do not disappoint me_.' Matthew understood what that meant. It meant that Hannibal wanted him to prove that he could make it on his own.

And he has.

But now he's back, at least for a little bit. He remembers Hannibal being resistant to showing him his real eyes whenever he asked. It's the quickest way to prove what they are. Matthew gets it. It's a bit theatrical, but he likes it. It's a sign of their power, that they're different and _above_ the humans.

Matthew's eyes narrow at the compliment. Hannibal isn't a man to throw out niceties to him. It _is_ a rare occurrence, but he can't deny the burst of heat at the praise. He waits and watches as Hannibal's eyes change, as the humanity drains away to be replaced with a striking crimson.Their appearance gets him hard, blood rushing downward and arousal making itself known. He can still remember the very first time Hannibal had shown his true eyes to him. Matthew hadn't believed the claim... But he had afterward. When hands move to his hips, Matthew blatantly rocks his forward.

The question has him pausing and leaning in to whisper into Hannibal's ear.

"Like I told you back then, I won't disappoint you. He's fine. I do know better than to snatch and break one of your toys." Matthew's tongue darts out to lick from Hannibal's lobe up the shell of his ear before he pulls his head back to gaze at Hannibal's eyes again.

"You probably sleep around with them more than your own kind, don't you?" Matthew smirks. They'd never all-out fucked. He's not queer, but Hannibal has always been a strange exception for him. He's fairly certain they'll never go that far, but that's all right. A little fun never hurt anyone.

* * *

Even in life, Hannibal's senses had been bordering on preternatural. That has not changed since his death and subsequent rebirth. If anything, it's merely gotten stronger. He doesn't need to look to sense the rush of heat in Matthew's body, and while Hannibal doesn't smile, a light of amusement does touch the corners of his eyes as they crinkle in a parody of warmth. Some things, it appears, do not change. Yet instead of mocking Matthew for it (he hadn't been so gauche even in the past) Hannibal only touches his hips and steadies them. He feels the strain of physical arousal rock against him, feels the hardness in Matthew's slacks through the plush material of his robe, and for a moment Hannibal does consider acting.

He doesn't. Not immediately. There are more pressing matters at hand, like whether or not Will is still _alive_. So despite the pleasant slide of heat, Hannibal's expression remains expectant and Matthew seems to understand. He leans in, his voice low, and there's a single shivering moment of recollection, of _before_. Young, eager, desperate for praise, trapped in the blistering darkness of his own mind, and liberated by Hannibal's touch. Matthew is one of his successes, and Hannibal is not exempt from the sin of pride. On the contrary, it is his driving force. Yet it is rare that he is proud of _another,_ as he is with Matthew. As one day he could see being with Will, if he plays his time right.

The touch of Matthew's tongue to his ear makes him sigh, and not out of exasperation. Hannibal's hands tighten their hold minutely, but it is Matthew's honesty that finally eases Hannibal's ire. Will is alive. He'll be exhausted come morning, likely suffering his shadows from his own personal demons all day, but he'll be alive.

"Yes," Hannibal says, letting the previous matter drop. There's no need to reinforce what Matthew already seems to know. "I rarely prefer the company of my own kind, as you well know. Humans may be callous and selfish, but some have a measure of composure above base brutality."

Hannibal's lips turn down just a fraction. He is a rarity among his kind, a superior, as it were. Perhaps there are classes of demon, but there are ranks within each class. The first demons and fallen angels are those who never leave Hell, gifted with the white eyes of those who have rarely seen the surface. They are powerful but content to laze in their own decadence. Hannibal's lip curls at the mere thought. He may be guilty of the same, but he genuinely enjoys his work. His eyes may be red, but there is no question about hierarchy. Many with red eyes still answer to him, and he's worked tirelessly to achieve it.

* * *

Hannibal is the type of individual who will not be readily distracted from their interests. Matthew knows Hannibal mostly has been allowing this because of his desire to uncover poor Will's fate. Perhaps there's a little bit of sentimentality toward him for they _had_ had a very successful partnership and friendship for more than ten years, but Matthew knows Hannibal hadn't been missing him or anything. While their kind isn't the nicest, Matthew knows that he hadn't been a good person _ever_. All around a bad egg and Hannibal had been there to make him fully see and understand himself -- to _indulge_ and he won't ever forget that. Hannibal Lecter had been the beginning and end to any meaningful life, after all.

Matthew can feel the exact moment Hannibal gets less pissy with him, less uptight. It's the moment he affirms that dear Will Graham has not been hurt. No broken neck, no broken toy. Will gets to go on living and likely suffering. Humans are good at that, after all. He'd been tempted to to kill him. To smother him with a pillow or grab a cord and choke him. Scratch that, he could use his own hands. He has the strength to easily dispatch Will, to use his hands intimately and bring hurt and pain.

"Have I lost my appeal now that I'm not a fragile human?" Matthew asks, head cocking to the side. He's genuinely curious. His own black eyes gaze at Hannibal's familiar face. It's a little more weathered, a little older -- few more wrinkles. Still unique and still handsome. He can easily recall the feeling of seeing and interacting with the enigmatic doctor, the naive excitement he felt in having captured such an established man's eye. His family had been thrilled... Finally someone to take Matthew under their wing! If only they knew just what Hannibal had _really_ trained him to do.

"God, I practically fawned over you, didn't I?" Matthew laughs and his fingers slide into soft hair at back of Hannibal's head, his nails scratching lightly. "I probably would have let you fuck me back then, back in the beginning."

* * *

Had the question been asked by anyone else in Hannibal's past, the note of dependence and neediness would have immediately been off-putting, but there is no timidness or dependency in Matthew's voice. He merely looks curious. Hannibal can feel the ease in Matthew's hips, no subconscious tension in his muscles that tells him that this is a loaded question. Matthew is simply extrapolating information based on what Hannibal had said, and the open curiosity and ease have something settling pleasantly in Hannibal's chest. He's on his way to smiling, the first hint in the wrinkles beside his eyes, but the way Matthew suddenly laughs and blurts out what he does finally completes the transition. Hannibal's smile is faint - little more than a gentle tug at the corner of his lips - but there's a mirth in his eyes.

He remembers how Matthew had been at the beginning. Lost, overwhelmed, struggling. An overlooked young man in the crowd, struggling with the weight of his own demons and balancing different desires than his peers. He'd been prime for the taking, and Hannibal is still vaguely pleased (relieved) that he'd been the first demon to find young Matthew Brown. Any others would have used his darkness to destroy him instead of taking the time to assist him. And while the reticent creature on Hannibal's lap now is all lazy, smug confidence and impertinence, it's merely proof of how far Matthew had come. He'd always been confident, always been a little smug, but there had been hesitance there. He'd been all thinly-veiled excitement and awe and frustration. So hearing Matthew's assertion comes as no surprise, and is even enough to draw a mild chuckle from Hannibal's throat. It's thick, the sound bordering on lazy as nails scratch over his scalp.

"Yes, I was aware you would have allowed it. You were perhaps not as subtle as you believed you were being," Hannibal says, sounding amused. "It's understandable. Having the freedom to be who you were meant to be is a thrilling sensation. You were giddy with it, and watching your confidence grow was satisfying. But, to answer your question... no." Hannibal tips his head back to look up at Matthew and he pulls the tails of Matthew's shirt free from his slacks so his thumbs brush against the skin beneath, stroking the angular cut of hipbones.

"You've not lost your appeal. It has merely shifted. And despite your recklessness tonight, you've done as I asked. You've not disappointed me. I am... proud."

* * *

He likes seeing Hannibal smile. More than that, Matthew likes being the cause of it. It doesn't give him butterflies, it doesn't make him blush. He doesn't have any romantic feelings toward Hannibal. He's never had romantic feelings for anyone and that's suited him just fine. Relationships have always seemed overcomplicated and unnecessary. He'd never wanted a wife and kids. Matthew likes sex. He's not that much of a freak, but the whole soulmates gazing into each other's eyes, flowers, chocolates? Not needed. Not him.

Plus, he's straight. Or mostly. He's never done anything sexual with another man _other_ than Hannibal. Matthew has thought about it a few times, simply to be able to knock Hannibal down a peg or two (prideful fuck), but in the end, no one else has caught his eye or captured his attention. Back when Hannibal had been known to him and his family as a well meaning and proper mentor, Matthew had been fucking wooed. He can't even deny it.

When his shirt is slipped from his slacks, fingers on his skin Matthew knows what the answer will be. There's no reason for Hannibal to try and placate him. If Hannibal wasn't interested, Hannibal would throw him right off. ' _You've not disappointed me. I am... proud.'_ Matthew licks his lips and grins at Hannibal, grinding his erection into Hannibal's crotch.

"I remember the first time I kissed you," Matthew murmurs, leaning in and brushing his lips against Hannibal's own.

****** _***** (Before)_

Matthew is a little tipsy. Just a little. Some uppity classical music is playing from the record player. Hannibal's type of music. Matthew would rather listen to Chuck Barry or Elvis Presley, but he knows Hannibal doesn't have any of his stuff. No nice rock and roll to move to and tap his toe. His leather jacket is hung up and his white tee-shirt is tucked into jeans. Hair slicked back, yeah, Matthew Brown likes the look of James Dean. Do his parents? No. But they're hoping Hannibal will be a good influence. (Little do they know...)

He's got a third tumbler of whiskey as he looks to Hannibal. The only light in the sitting room is a crackling fire. Various anatomy text books are spread out on the coffee table, the light playing over the images. Matthew takes a sip of his liquor.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get me drunk," he comments, an eyebrow arching. He feels a little warm, but mostly loose and comfortable. Hannibal had been answering his questions about various bodily functions and surgeries, but it's getting harder to think now and watch what he says. He still needs to be careful. Hannibal Lecter seems like a cool cat, but he's still not certain of him.

It's honestly feels too good to be true that Hannibal would like his company and see potential in him but here he is... Matthew turns to face Hannibal who is sitting next to him on the couch.

* * *

The room is dark and well-furnished, with an over-large armchair in the corner and the couch resting comfortably across from the fire. It's a modest room, not the largest in the house, but certainly the most relaxing. Dark wood and darker furniture with accented wall hangings set a welcoming decor, and the only light in the room comes from the fire. The result is precisely what Hannibal had intended it to be upon setting it up like this. It's a cocoon away from the rest of the world, the light from the fire not quite meeting the far corners of the room, instead making it feel soft and warm and curled, like a welcoming blanket of darkness. There are thin patterns along the wall, flickering their reflections from the numerous bottles of wine and spirits, as well as the expensive glasses, but the flickering is almost hypnotic. In this room, the rest of the world ceases to exist. A nest, of sorts, aimed for comfort and decadence.

Matthew Brown does not fit the decor, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't belong. Like a cracked vase in a museum, his worth doesn't come from his appearance, but rather something far more. All evening (which had started with Hannibal paying a polite visit to the Brown family, complete with the customary few minutes of idle chatter and offering of gifts, and had wound up here, in his sitting room) Hannibal has taken great care to manufacture every second to his liking. The classical music in the background is a low sound to block out the bustle of the world outside. The scent of woodsmoke, whiskey, and Hannibal's own unique cologne block out all other scents. The room is dark and sheltered, directing Matthew's focus to the anatomy texts and their own proximity. The alcohol blocks out all other taste. And as for touch... Hannibal glances to the young man sitting loosely by his side and the way Matthew has steadily been easing closer, undoubtedly due to the alcohol. Hannibal's resulting smile is in his eyes.

"I assure you, Mr. Brown. Were I attempting to lower your inhibitions, you would know," he says lowly, his voice like silk. The fire flickers in the grate, violins fluttering whimsically in the other room, and while Hannibal doesn't often indulge enough to manufacture something so blatant, he is not blind. Matthew Brown has made his interest more than apparent, though Hannibal doubts Matthew is aware of this. Youth at its finest. "I merely believe a man should have proper access and experience with the finer spirits. Plus, I believe you have been doing well and studying hard enough to warrant a reward. Why?" He adds, as if curious. "Are you beginning to feel flushed?"

* * *

Matthew remembers the first time he'd stepped foot into Hannibal Lecter's home. He'd stood out, like a grease stain on a freshly pressed shirt. The art, the tapestries, the fucking sculptures, the sheer amount of booze... it had been a lot to take in. It's not that the Brown family is exactly _poor_ , but they are definitely at the lower end of middle class. Owning a funeral home isn't a wealthy business but he gets to work with dead bodies so that's definitely a perk. It beat a lot of other jobs.

But Hannibal has only ever been welcoming and easy going so Matthew has gotten over his nerves about being in the home and being around Hannibal. Most of the time anyway. There's something about Hannibal's answer that makes Matthew chuckle softly. Hannibal's voice is... Kind of sexy sounding? Somehow. The thought is weird. Feels weird in his head. It's a realization he's never had before. Maybe it's the alcohol. Hannibal is old enough to be his father. Hannibal is also a man--

But it feels good to have Hannibal's acknowledgement. Matthew _has_ been studying hard, eagerly learning how the human body works, eating up the facts and knowledge Hannibal shares with him. He doesn't say thanks for the compliment. It's easier to not bring any attention to it.

"Yeah, getting there. A bit tipsy. Thanks to your finer spirits," Matthew laughs again, finishing off his whiskey and placing the tumbler down on a coaster (he's learned what kind of things Hannibal expects of him). Matthew blinks and glances around the room, taking in how he's feeling. Warm. Relaxed. A little dizzy. _Good_. Yeah definitely drunk.

"Everyone thinks you're such a good influence on me, _Doctor_ Lecter," Matthew sing-songs. "But I think you've got some troublemaker inside of you."

Feelin' loose is leading to a loose tongue, apparently. With that stated, Matthew promptly lets himself slump over and rest his head on Hannibal's shoulder. It should feel stranger but it somehow doesn't. Hannibal has always been tactile... This is just that first time Matthew's initiated something.

* * *

Employing the use of alcohol has never been Hannibal's style, but he's aware that other demons use it exclusively. Dull compliance isn't his preference. He doesn't collect souls (not in his own personal side of the job, anyway) but he does hone them. He's a craftsman, honing the edge of a blade over the course of many weeks instead of merely grinding it down automatically and moving onto the next. There's skill involved in unearthing hidden talent and creating something from the raw, base materials. Each human he's found is a work of art, needing differing levels of guidance to achieve what they need. Matthew Brown is no different, and yet there is something else about the young man that has caught Hannibal's eye. He's no stranger to covert glances and shy smiles, typically from the young nurses at the hospital he works at. It's never swayed him before. Still... this man has proven different. Matthew Brown's interest is not romantic, but it is steadily growing in another way and Hannibal finds himself inadvertently interested in the change.

He's a kinetic man, using touch to soothe and persuade, and Matthew has been nothing if not receptive to it. Even now, warm and loose from the alcohol, Hannibal watches the way Matthew finishes the rest of his whiskey and then inches closer. Hannibal doubts he's aware of having done so, but Hannibal cannot help a small thrill at the knowledge that his slow, artful persuasion (perhaps also a note of seduction) is beginning to bear fruit. He is skilled at cultivation, and as he studies the flush to Matthew's skin in the low, flickering light of the fireplace and listens to his vaguely melodic teasing, Hannibal resists the urge to smile. Matthew has no idea just how right he is. Hannibal hums a soft note of conspiratorial agreement, and when Matthew finally leans in enough and his head comes to rest on the shoulder of Hannibal's suit jacket, there is only a moment's pause before Hannibal lowers that shoulder to ease the strain on Matthew's neck.

Alcohol is still not his style, but Hannibal isn't using it to get Matthew drunk enough to make a deal. This is different. Lowering inhibitions is a pleasant side effect of the real goal, which honestly _has_ been to reward him for working so hard. Positive reinforcement is far more effective than the alternative, after all.

"Everyone does, to a certain extent," Hannibal says, amusement lacing his voice. "Often those who employ the most control in their everyday lives are the ones most prone to causing trouble. Take yourself, for example. Mildly rebellious, perhaps, but not to be intentionally difficult. Yet also studious and respectful. You don't often rise to aggression, keeping yourself contained. You control yourself as you can, and yet upon being given an outlet to perhaps... do something that your parents wouldn't favor," Hannibal nods to the whiskey glass with the faintest curl of a smile, "you indulge willingly. Though look at me, letting you do exactly that. Perhaps we are not so unalike, we merely choose to indulge in the presence of like-minded company."

* * *

At twenty years of age, Matthew isn't old enough to purchase liquor. He has drank a little bit with delinquent high school buddies when he could, but thankfully he has Hannibal Lecter now. His parents aren't all right with drinking. His parents don't like vices. They like God and prayer and community. Good relations is important. Having a good reputation is important. They have to fight any possible stigma of owning and running a funeral home. It's pretty much lame.

And then Hannibal replies, all easy going, all suave and perceptive. The usual. Matthew is a little rebellious, but he does mostly behave. Obviously Hannibal isn't so straight laced either…

"You're the most interesting person I've ever met," Matthew says. "Granted, I haven't been alive that long ago maybe someone will upend you, but somehow I don't think so." He laughs again. He likes laughing. So many things are so damn amusing but he has to behave. It's not appropriate to laugh among the grieving, to laugh amidst the dead. Appearances, appearances. That's why his family adores Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal is cultured, but not stuck up. Hannibal is a professional, but doesn't lord his position over anyone. Fucking gracious and charming. If Matthew had been a woman, his parents would have been over the moon at the potential interest of such a man.

But he's not. Matthew closes his eyes, a lazy smile on his face. "If I was a girl, my parents would have been clambering to marry me off to you," Matthew states. "You'll never find a wife if you spend so much time with me."

He secretly likes that idea... Hannibal spending a lot of time with him, neglecting potential women...

* * *

He is overstepping professional boundaries, but he doesn't care. He's never been under the misguided assumption that this has ever been professional. While his goal isn't to manipulate a soul out of this, or even to wind up with Matthew on his back, it _is_ to lower this man's inhibitions enough to perhaps get him talking. Hannibal knows what he's done and knows he could use extra guidance, but being blunt is not advised here. So instead he's played this game, finding this young man by 'accident', endearing himself to him, being nothing but charming and welcoming, charming his parents and expressing an interest in Matthew's future... everything he's done has been to open a conversation. Now, feeling the warmth of Matthew's weight against him, the scent of whiskey and smoke strong on the air, he believes he has fostered enough trust to begin to push this further. Matthew's blatant attraction to him only makes this easier.

Even so, Hannibal cannot deny that the compliment hits its mark. He's a modest man on the outside, but quite prideful at heart. Looking down at Matthew, watching him laugh, Hannibal allows the comment to settle comfortably against him.

"I will endeavor to keep myself interesting," he says into the brief silence following Matthew's laughter. His own tone is amused, perhaps a little lower, and when Matthew continues, eyes closed and smiling, Hannibal cannot help a flicker of amusement in his own eyes. He wonders vaguely if Matthew is even aware of his attraction, or if he's as oblivious as he seems. Hannibal wets his lips.

"I'd not concern myself with that, Mr. Brown... Matthew," he corrects, simply for intimacy's sake. Hannibal shifts his posture just enough to fold his hands over his lap. An innocent gesture, perhaps, but orchestrated simply because it means his forearm touches Matthew's thigh. "I don't recall ever telling you that finding a wife was a priority of mine. Likely as it isn't. What need have I of a wife when our conversations are so much more engaging?"

Hannibal lets the statement linger for a calculated few seconds. Then he glances down at Matthew with a small smile. "Though I do see your point. Your parents have been quite unsubtle these past few weeks, though I hardly mind. You're a bright young man, and it's rare to find someone so young so willing to approach this material. Most are squeamish or weak of heart in matters of anatomy, but not you."

* * *

Matthew is fairly certain Hannibal Lecter will remain interesting. On the outside they don't have all that much in common, but appearances are just the casing for all the nifty oooey gooey bits on the inside. They may come from different socioeconomic backgrounds, be from different countries but they both share an interest in anatomy and the human body. Matthew likes hearing about Hannibal's schooling, the various functions of organs, about certain surgeries. Thus far the doctor has been more than willing to answer his questions and even tutor him.

His eyes open when Hannibal uses his first name. Hannibal usually refers to him as Mr. Brown in private and 'your son' among his family. Although he'd quickly encouraged _him_ to use 'Hannibal' and drop the Mister and Doctor. An arm touches his thigh and Matthew is keenly aware that this is the closest they've been and remained... It still doesn't feel that weird. It had to be the whole European thing. Matthew sure as hell wouldn't sit this close with any of his male friends. Hannibal is more than a friend anyway...

He's not surprised that Hannibal has no interest in finding a wife. Being an eligible bachelor comes with perks, freedom being one of them. ' _What need have I of a wife when our conversations are so much more engaging?'_ Matthew has no answer for the question. A part of him wants to blurt out 'obviously to fuck her' but some women still gave it up without a wedding ring and he doubts Hannibal has been celibate all his years. When Hannibal mentions anatomy and his interest, Matthew nods.

"I wish I could open people up, see everything working like a machine. Tug on the zipper and reveal their insides, as if their skin was a jacket." Matthew wrinkles his nose. "That gross you out?" He laughs again, stretching his legs out. "I learned quickly to keep my thoughts to myself as a kid."

* * *

The look Matthew sends him following his question is one Hannibal catches in his peripheral vision. He smiles inwardly, but outwardly pretends that he hasn't seen. His statement had done what he intended it to do; he's already refocusing Matthew's thoughts, emboldening him, carefully brushing sand away from a sculpture to reveal its smooth edges. It takes time to properly bring potential out of its shell, to sand away rough edges and reveal the masterpiece beneath. Hannibal knows he's getting close with this one, and as Matthew undoubtedly dwells on brief thoughts of Hannibal and sex (while likely thinking of himself, though possibly not while involved in sexual acts) Hannibal simply leans back on the couch and rolls his free shoulder in a slow, languid stretch.

His openness is rewarded by Matthew giving him the same in return. Hannibal allows himself to pause for a moment, like he'd not been expecting Matthew's admission. It's enough to draw the soft question out. (' _That gross you out?'_ ) Hannibal listens to the laugh that follows and watches as Matthew stretches his legs out. He feels the flex of muscle through the fabric of his shirt.

"Well, you've no reason to do the same with me. You didn't 'gross me out', as you put it. On the contrary, I believe most every physician has that thought at one time or another." Hannibal sighs, his other hand lifting to gesture in the air. Matthew is a tactile man, but also a visual one, and Hannibal has no issue in catering to him.

"I'm sure given your profession that you've needed to see inside a cadaver, but there is something much different about looking past the skin of a man on the table and watching the pulsing beat of his heart. As a physician, it is often difficult to diagnose without seeing, and so many illnesses hide. I myself have wished to simply 'unzip' someone - as you so succinctly put it - in order to assess the problem. Were it only so easy," he adds, with a small, rueful smile. "I suppose the closest moment you've described is when I am operating. Holding a man's beating heart in the palm of my hand, both figuratively and literally by times. It is a ... humbling and powerful feeling."

* * *

As a child, Matthew Brown had discovered quite quickly that he was different from other kids. He didn't really enjoy playing with others, he had no interest in sports, silly games or teamwork. Soon after such observations, he'd learned the best way to be was to keep his thoughts to himself. If he simply kept quiet, he wouldn't get funny looks, he wouldn't get in trouble. Being considered shy or quiet was acceptable so Matthew had taken on those labels willingly. He did have many thoughts and opinions and would let loose in "like-minded company."

Such as with Hannibal. Hannibal proves this by responding favorably to his admission. So far so good. Maybe he can be himself. Matthew isn't exactly surprised that Hannibal is all right with his words, but he is pleased by it. Hannibal hasn't been annoyed or bothered by anything he's said -- at least not yet. And as Hannibal continues speaking, Matthew is practically rapt imagining gloved hands inside a chest cavity - Hannibal's hands - touching a human heart, all the intricate parts, the chambers and valves. The blood. A _life_ in the balance.

"Sometimes I look at the dead bodies that I have to embalm... And I think up better deaths for them." This admission has Matthew sitting up and angling his body to face Hannibal. He's not going to hide. He looks at Hannibal, no shame, but an edge of excited nervousness in his voice. "Like, more interesting ways. Nothing mundane like myocardial infarction or old age." Matthew's eyes widen, he's distantly aware that he's growing aroused, but he's not going to stop. "I mean more gruesome."

* * *

There. Hannibal feels the smallest thrill slide down his spine, something hot and tingling that feels rather a lot like satisfaction. Matthew is rapt in listening to him, and while he knows this is a careful balance to strike, he knows that this is the time to do it. He notes the excitement in Matthew's eyes, the way he shifts against Hannibal's side, and when he finishes his comment, there is a distinct additional scent in the air. Hannibal doesn't smile, but he can feel the shift in the air like it had been tectonic. When Matthew straightens and turns to face him better, his eyes somewhat wide and his voice nervously excited, Hannibal politely watches him, giving Matthew his attention.

The admission is precisely what he's been after but he takes care not to show his hand just yet, listening attentively with a small nod here and there to urge Matthew into continuing. And when he adds his final note - that he thinks about _gruesome_ deaths - Hannibal tilts his head and pretends to consider everything Matthew has said. In truth, this is a difficult line to walk. If he's too affronted, he loses Matthew. If he's too supportive, the suspicion will likely hit and result in the same. So while Hannibal wants little more than to encourage and push, he does make sure to temper his reaction into something thoughtful.

"I see no fault in that," is what he eventually says, ensuring his tone sounds reasonable. "I would argue that it seems only natural to me. I had the same thoughts while studying. While I will always be appreciative to those who left their bodies so that medical students could practice, seeing the same thing endlessly was not engaging. I would often think up more interesting deaths for them as well. Sometimes gruesome, as you said," he adds with a small, almost indulgent smile, "sometimes poetic. Something more fitting. Given the nature of your work, I believe it only stands to reason that you'd look for something more. You're young. Old cadavers are hardly enough to consistently keep your interest."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't look spooked by what he's just said, the doctor simply focuses on him, giving Matthew his undivided attention… Matthew likes it quite a lot. He's always liked having Hannibal's attention, having Hannibal be interested in his thoughts and comments, his questions and curiosities. Matthew has spent most of his life giving the appropriate responses, _behaving_ , pushing the boundaries a little bit, but never enough. No, never enough. Sometimes he just wants to lash out and punch anyone and everyone, he wants to feel his muscles burning and his knuckles sore. Sometimes he wants to scream until his throat hurts. He never does. He's not crazy. Hannibal Lecter has been a breath of fresh air that Matthew wants to keep on breathing in. Matthew's former way of being now pales in comparison. Being able to speak so openly with Hannibal, being mentally engaged... Matthew feels like it's changing him. It's getting a little more difficult to keep his mouth shut and be _good._

A problem for another time.

Hannibal looks like he's considering everything Matthew has shared. Matthew observes him closely, looking for any signs of potential judgment... but none are found. Hannibal looks fine still, as capable as ever with what's been revealed. Hannibal reassures him -- more or less. Sometimes that can be annoying, but for whatever reason, this time it isn't. Matthew doesn't think Hannibal is attempting to placate or mollify him. It's more of a camaraderie type of thing. At least that's how Matthew is taking it. Hannibal's mouth quirks into a sliver of a smile. The word 'poetic' strikes Matthew as somewhat odd. He's heard about poetic justice before... that vice should be punished and virtue rewarded -- morals. Used as a literary device. Matthew can't remember specifics nor does he care to.

"You're older and you've kept my interest... I wonder what kind of death you'll have. Hopefully not a boring one," Matthew dares to say. Maybe because he's been so good, been behaving that his mouth opens again.

"Do you want to kiss me? You seem like that _type._ I don't really care either way, but right now, I'm a little curious myself. I wanna kiss you." His eyebrows lift sightly and he purposefully licks his lips. Matthew knows he's attractive. Matthew knows Hannibal is far from ordinary. Let's see where this goes...

* * *

Admittedly this is one reason that Hannibal enjoys this young man: while Matthew can be predictable by times, his mouth often runs away with him, making him somewhat unpredictable when it suits him. That, as it so happens, is how Hannibal finds this current exchange. It's charming in a sense, Matthew's admission enough to draw a small sound of mirth from Hannibal's throat. Had it been anyone else, he would have merely frowned in polite disapproval, but Matthew has a rough charm about him by times, and Hannibal can hardly fault him for finding a verbal hook to latch onto. He _is_ older than Matthew, and much older than Matthew knows. Yet the comment - wondering what kind of death he'd have - draws that smile back onto Hannibal's lips. He ducks his head in acknowledgement.

"I would certainly hope that my death is anything but boring."

Perhaps one day he'll say more on the matter, as there is plenty to say. For now, Hannibal remains quiet, and in the other room, the song on the record shifts and then begins to replay, a near-seamless transition. It's almost fitting, then, that the swell of orchestral music fades into silence and then begins to start its tentative notes just as Matthew's focus suddenly... changes. Hannibal's eyebrows climb up higher on his forehead at the question. Oh, he's known it's been coming, but he finds himself pleasantly surprised over how blunt Matthew decides to be. Yet still there are appearances to maintain, so instead of breaking out into a smile or chuckling, Hannibal hesitates, then glances away, clearing his throat and leaning back in his seat, like Matthew _has_ caught him off guard. Yet even that farce is short-lived, as Hannibal appears to pull himself back together. When he glances back at Matthew, it's with a note of interested curiosity in his eyes.

"If this is your way of asking me if I have ever shared my bed with a man before, the answer is yes," Hannibal says, and there's no shame in the statement. "Likewise I have shared it with women. I don't believe in denying myself pleasure, regardless of where it comes from." His gaze dips just for a moment, following the line Matthew's tongue had taken only moments before. It had been intended to arouse, and Hannibal has no reason _not_ to allow that of himself. He breathes in, smelling the hint of arousal mixed with whiskey and woodsmoke and finds it pleasing. "You're aware your parents would not approve, and _I_ am aware... that you don't care. You're not one to deny yourself pleasure any more than I am. So... yes, Matthew. I would like you to kiss me." Hannibal reaches a hand out then, just enough to touch Matthew's knee, laying a hand over it.

"Or, if it would make you feel more comfortable to hear it phrased differently, I would like to kiss you."

* * *

Matthew has never really thought about other men in any sort of romantic or sexual fashion. He's no fairy -- but Hannibal is no mere man. Hannibal somehow transcends everyday normal. Hannibal demands attention, but doesn't have to ask or act out for it. There's something almost otherworldly about the foreign man, his slightly accented voice, his way with words, his calming demeanor, his cultured intelligence, his noticeable style...

Matthew isn't entirely certain he knows how he feels toward or about his older mentor. In certain ways it still feels like a dream. How could he be so lucky to have found a friend who seems to _get_ _him_? Which is precisely why he needs to test Hannibal, to see just how far Hannibal's interest in him really goes. And Matthew wants to discover the same for him. He likes to push the limits, his own included. There's a sick delight in being uncomfortable, in pushing through and doing something new and possibly even scandalous. Being able to give voice to his thoughts and whims... Well, Matthew enjoys it.

Hannibal looks mildly surprised, but not necessarily affronted. This is good. Hannibal looks away, clears his throat and Matthew waits. If this is a misstep, he's sure Hannibal would clock him and throw him out... But it's not. Matthew knows it's not. Hannibal is some kind of dandy. Maybe not a full fledged one, but there's _something_ there. Because then Hannibal turns back and Matthew can _see_ interest. He's never met a faggot before... But is Hannibal really one if he "shares his bed" with both genders? Matthew doesn't know and Matthew doesn't care. Hannibal has a good argument -- Matthew is inclined to agree. Why deny any pleasure? Who cares if homosexuality is a supposed sin? They’re all sinners, some just hide it better or are simply delusional about it. Matthew's eyes dart down to where Hannibal's hand comes to rest on his knee.

_'Or, if it would make you feel more comfortable to hear it phrased differently, I would like to kiss you.'_

"Who said I wanted to feel comfortable?" Matthew murmurs, amusement evident in his voice. "It's dull."

He notices his pulse picking up. He notices that he has half an erection. Interesting. Matthew presses closer, his thigh lining up to Hannibal's as he puts an arm around the back of the couch.

"I wanna kiss you," he restates. "And I'm going to." His other hand reaches out to hold onto the side of Hannibal's head, his fingers sliding into soft hair and gripping. He pulls Hannibal down to his mouth. There's a scratch of stubble, the smell of cologne, but it's still a mouth -- it's Hannibal's lips moving against his own and Matthew is wide eyed as he kisses back eagerly, wanting to explore and take in equal measure.

* * *

Hannibal cares very little about Matthew's comfort, but he cares a great deal about his malleability, about how bold and brash he really is, and about maintaining certain appearances. Just as Matthew tests him, Hannibal's response is also a test. It's mildly goading insofar that it implies that Matthew needs to be coddled or coaxed into acting on his own. He implies a sense of discomfort, of _fear_ , and he can practically see the moment that Matthew's stubbornness rises to the forefront. Hannibal says nothing, remaining politely silent and coaxing as Matthew eases in closer to Hannibal's side. He responds precisely the way Hannibal had hoped he would, becoming bolder, chasing the bait to bite the hook, but Hannibal has no intention of consuming this one. He is not so dull, so cruel. Matthew Brown is a special young man, one he knows could do a great deal with the proper motivation. Hannibal believes this might be a step towards that motivation. A secret shared, mutual sin (amusing as the thought is), perhaps it will open the gates to loosen Matthew's lips in other ways.

He allows himself the indulgence of simply looking at what he's made a point of politely denying up until now. Matthew is a handsome young man and the light from the fire merely heightens it. His harsher angles are softened by the flickering light and as pleasant as the sharp, angular lines of his face are, Hannibal finds he enjoys the intimacy the fire offers. He's pleasantly surprised by the boldness shown. Alcohol and goading apparently work well, but Hannibal believes that more than that, _attention_ is what is truly Matthew's drug of choice. Fingers touch his face before sliding back into his hair, and Hannibal allows himself the sweet moment of anticipation before he's pulled down into a kiss. It's a little surprising but Hannibal immediately compensates, leaning in closer and allowing Matthew the freedom to lead.

He tastes of whiskey and the finer notes from dinner, and something uniquely him. _Opportunity_ , Hannibal thinks, his own eyes half-closed as he opens to the kiss, his lips moving over Matthew's like he's merely savoring the moment. In a sense, he is. Matthew's words linger in the back of his mind. ( _'Who said I wanted to feel comfortable?'_ ) It's a surprise, and perhaps that is the reason that he acts a little faster than he'd intended. He allows Matthew control of the kiss, allows him his eagerness, but then he begins to push, subtly at first. His hand lifts under Matthew's jaw, fingers settling against his neck as he tips Matthew's chin up with his thumb. When Hannibal kisses him next, it's deeper, not just the simple press of lips, but the addition of teeth, pushing and pressing as his fingers stroke along the fine column of Matthew's throat. Hannibal has Matthew's youth on his side like this, but even so, he cannot deny his own reaction, his slacks growing faintly tight at the sensual treat.

* * *

It's more arousing than it should be. That's what Matthew thinks as they kiss and their mouths begin their rather friendly getting-to-know each-other session. It's new and different, but it's still a kiss. It's scandalous and inappropriate, but it's also very satisfying. Matthew feels hotter, more flush, and now more noticeably aroused. It's unlike him to become so revved up just from some _kissing_ , but Matthew doesn't care. He knows there's more to it than simply kissing Hannibal.

It's doing something that his parents would consider _wrong_ , something improper because Hannibal is both older than him _and_ a man. It's also _who_ Hannibal is -- a cultured and well respected professional... but Hannibal also doesn't seem bothered by what he's all mentioned. That's never really happened with Matthew. He's never been able to simply share his thoughts with no repercussions, and they're thoughts and ideas that he's had to bottle up for so long. Hannibal looks refined, acts polite, and yet he's been giving Matthew whiskey and now _this_. Yeah, there definitely is a bit of a troublemaker in there.

Hannibal's hand comes to hold under Matthew's jaw, a thumb tipping his chin up. Matthew sees no problem with this, especially as Hannibal then deepens the kiss. Matthew moans as fingers trace down his throat, the touch somehow sensual even though it's _just_ his throat. He kind of wants to pin Hannibal down against the couch, he wants to get his hands all over Hannibal's fancy clothes and pull on them .

Matthew doesn't. Instead, he licks into Hannibal's mouth, he lets his tongue feel sharp teeth and a shiver races down his spine. He withdraws from the kiss to laugh lightly, his lips swollen and wet.

"You're the first man I've ever kissed," Matthew comments, his fingers brushing through Hannibal's hair, wanting to create disorder.

* * *

Hannibal is no stranger to this kind of intimacy, but there is a unique thrill in each and every encounter with another person. Normally he indulges either to further a goal or to scratch an itch of pure boredom, but Matthew Brown is more the former. Even then, there's something engaging in this, in his youthful enthusiasm, in the way his moan vibrates pleasantly through Hannibal's skin from where their lips are connected. Hannibal steals kisses quickly, slow at first, then quickly building to the more tempting slide of teeth. He chases Matthew's moan with a pleased breath of his own and as the scratch of stubble brushes pleasantly over his chin, he parts his lips in order to bite at Matthew's only to be surprised by the bold lick of Matthew's tongue. Hannibal doesn't draw back, doesn't react negatively. Why would he? Instead a thrill of warmth settles within, like warm honey over his skin.

He allows Matthew his indulgence, allows him to taste. Hannibal's fingers stroke over Matthew's throat a few times, languid, thrilling patterns, and when his young charge pulls away with a soft laugh, Hannibal draws back only enough to look down at him with a heated smile. He admires the way Matthew's lips look, how plump and red they are, and were it not for the fact that Matthew speaks, he would have leaned in again to chase and bite them. As it is Hannibal stills so that Matthew can stroke his hair. Yes, he can feel the product loosening, can feel his hair losing the shape he'd insisted on, but Matthew's fingers feel good. Hannibal hums a soft sound, pleased.

"Then I consider that an honor. Though I would caution you against kissing just any man. You would benefit from one who knows what he's doing."

It's immodest, and for Hannibal, it's practically bold. He slides his thumb up from Matthew's chin to press against his lower lip, rubbing along its length once before moving back down. Hannibal is the one to lean in next, and the kiss he presses to Matthew's lips is not chaste. He coaxes Matthew's lips parted so that he can taste him properly, his hand easing down to settle on Matthew's side. It's a warm press against Matthew's skin and Hannibal knows it will mix well with the style of the kiss, the brief lapse in control, the hint of hunger he lets free. Yet by the time he draws back from the kiss, he's softened it enough to make them both breathless. He wets his lips and admires how much more flushed Matthew's own lips are now.

"You look fetching like this," he says honestly, if breathlessly. "I wonder how much better you'll look when you stop holding yourself back."

* * *

' _Though I would caution you against kissing just any man. You would benefit from one who knows what he's doing.'_

Matthew can't picture kissing another man. He can only now picture kissing Hannibal because it's just happened; he has a feeling it's going to happen again too. The insinuation that Hannibal knows what he's doing - that he's experienced - brings a grin to Matthew's slick lips. He likes the claim and it _is_ true. Hannibal is a good kisser, although Matthew would say that the advice could be applied to either gender... But on second thought, Matthew thinks he'd be considerably more tolerant of poor kissing from a woman than a man. He has tolerated it in the past.

All Matthew answers with is, "If you say so," before Hannibal is leaning in and kissing him. Matthew gives in willingly, mouth opening for Hannibal's tongue, enjoying the sinful experience of their spit mixing and the feel of Hannibal's tongue inside his mouth. The hand on his side... It's not bad. In the back of his head he thinks it's all a little too proper, a little too contained... But gotta start somewhere. So he doesn't complain, he just kisses back and matches the pace Hannibal sets. Now that he's had a taste, Matthew feels like he should just go along with the flow.

The compliment paid to him has a small chuckle leaving Matthew's mouth. He doesn't need the flattery - he knows he's attractive - but it is nice. 'I _wonder how much better you'll look when you stop holding yourself back.'_ That right there has the grin slipping off his face in consideration. Matthew's eyes narrow. It's almost a taunt, but there's also a genuine curiosity there.

"Message received," Matthew murmurs, a smile back on his face. He doesn't really know if he needs to treat Hannibal any different from a woman, but Matthew isn't going to worry about it. He all but pushes Hannibal down on the large couch, now half laying down while Matthew crawls on top of him. One leg is off the couch, steadying himself as his hands fist into Hannibal's suit jacket. Matthew presses in close and can feel an answering hardness that he can't help but eagerly rub against. Matthew is groaning as he nuzzles in to kiss at Hannibal's neck -- girls liked it and _he_ liked it...

"You wanna touch my cock?" He asks. "It's your doing that has me hard, after all."

* * *

If asked, Hannibal fully intends to deny that his words are in any way a taunt, but he believes he knows this young man well enough to know how Matthew will react to what is _definitely_ a taunt. He's curious to know how Matthew will respond. Will he get defensive? Will he push? Will he be shy, or bold? All questions that Hannibal wishes to have answered merely because he can, because he's decided that Matthew Brown is worth his time and attention. So while he does enjoy the sight of Matthew's grin slipping from his lips in favor of a thoughtful expression, he doesn't make his interest obvious. Instead he allows himself to glance down at Matthew's lips, allows himself to tighten his hold on Matthew's side like he's considering the benefits of pulling him closer. Before he can, Matthew makes his decision, and Hannibal is left pleasantly surprised that Matthew had seen through the taunt. Interesting and promising indeed.

Yet nothing is quite as promising as the way Matthew's hands suddenly reach out and _push_. Hannibal has to remind himself at the last second to give in, to not resist. It is... perhaps not what he'd envisioned but he cannot deny he finds it interesting. His back hits the armrest of the couch and his own wine glass wobbles precariously on the side table as the couch slides against the floor a little with the effort. Nothing spills (which Hannibal is grateful for) and while the positioning is vaguely uncomfortable, it's immediately redeemed when Matthew leans over, bold, and climbs atop him. Hands fist in (and wrinkle) his suit jacket but that concern is short-lived, as the drag of Matthew's clothed erection against his own is enough to send a hot slide of pleasure through him. Hannibal echoes Matthew's groan, though softer, and he relents enough to tilt his head to the side, giving Matthew room enough to kiss his neck. Again, not what he'd envisioned, but not unpleasant.

_'You wanna touch my cock? It's your doing that has me hard, after all.'_

For a brief moment, Hannibal looks just shy of delighted by the taunt in response, but Matthew is too busy at his neck to notice. He hums, a pleased sound, and needs no further instruction as he immediately moves his hand down between them.

"Of course. One should always take responsibility for his or her actions," he says, amused and a little breathless. His large hand presses boldly to the front of Matthew's jeans, cupping the heat of his cock through the rough fabric. Hannibal reaches his other hand down and tugs at the hem of Matthew's tee shirt, pulling it from his jeans so that he can slide his other hand up the taut abdomen beneath.

"Whatever you're considering, the answer is yes," Hannibal adds, and there's a lick of heat in his voice, a gentle coaxing. "Kiss, lick, suck... bite, you're free to do it all. Has anyone ever allowed you free rein before? Allowed you to be demanding? Selfish?"

* * *

Being on the couch like this isn't especially practical or comfortable, but Matthew isn't going to stop or suggest that they relocate. Going to Hannibal's _bedroom_ seems far too strange, far too... serious. Like there would be expectations and Matthew isn't sure how far this will all go, how far he's willing to take it. Pinning Hannibal down, rubbing their dicks together, talking about Hannibal touching him... It's manageable. More though? Matthew isn't so sure. He doesn't really want to touch Hannibal's cock.

But Hannibal obliges him, Hannibal tilts his head to the side to give him better access and Hannibal's hand moves in between their bodies with no hesitation. The 'taking responsibility' comment has Matthew chuckling softly. He's sure he's used that reasoning with women before (with varying degrees of success). His amusement very quickly turns into a cry of pleasure as Hannibal's hand squeezes the outline of his erection. Hannibal’s other hand pulls his shirt up and Matthew pushes into the touch on his cock and stomach.

Hannibal's words are both permission and encouragement and they only entice Matthew more. Matthew's eyes close as he thinks them over. He licks up Hannibal's neck slowly, rocking into the hand on his cock. The idea of Hannibal _consenting_ , Hannibal telling him _yes_ and interested in giving him 'free rein?' It's damn exciting.

"No, not really," Matthew answers, whispering into Hannibal's ear. "But you will, huh?" To see if it's true, Matthew specifically latches onto a point high enough on Hannibal's neck that a mark would be visible. He bites and sucks with vigor, enjoying the taste of the skin and the feel of Hannibal underneath him.

Matthew may not know what he all wants, but leaving a mark on Hannibal's neck appeals. He wants the world to see it too.

* * *

Matthew Brown is a repressed man, and Hannibal knows how to handle this situation even if the reality of it is different than he'd imagined. He hadn't pictured this, being on his back on the couch with Matthew atop him. When he'd allowed himself to entertain the idea, it had been the other way around, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes this is precisely what _should_ happen. Scaring Matthew off isn't his intention, and a shared, illicit secret will be more likely to bring him back. Let him think what he would of Hannibal. Let him deny or worry. Hannibal doesn't care. Instead he whispers, entices, slides in through Matthew's defenses in order to tailor-make a situation for him. He touches the outline of Matthew's cock and is thrilled by the resulting cry, but more than that, Hannibal is caught by how eager Matthew is to leave his mark.

It isn't an offer Hannibal would have made casually, and there _is_ a frisson of irritation inside when he realizes just how high Matthew's lips eventually choose. It feels good; Hannibal shivers at the lick, and a soft breath escapes him as Matthew's teeth come into play. He doesn't need to look to know that the mark Matthew draws out onto his skin is lurid, and he makes absolutely no move to stop him. Instead Hannibal only drops one shoulder, offering Matthew as much as he can while still fully clothed.

"I am quite fond of selfish," he murmurs, though breathlessly. "What good is decadence if you're limited by what society expects?"

He encourages each rock of Matthew's hips, his palm hot and his stroking only just past teasing. Yet in the end, aware that Matthew's nerves might fail him, Hannibal's free hand slides back down to the hem of Matthew's jeans. With quick fingers, he undoes Matthew's belt, then pops the button on his jeans and unzips his fly. Hannibal works relatively quickly, as he's aware that the concept of a man touching him might be one thing for Matthew, but the reality might be far different. So before the reality can properly register, Hannibal works his underwear and jeans down until the silken heat of Matthew's skin hits his hand. Hannibal wastes no time in wrapping a hand around Matthew's cock, stroking light and slow, no hesitation in the way his thumb presses pointedly under the head. His own cock is full and mildly uncomfortable where it's trapped in his slacks, but he'll handle it later. He has much more pressing matters to attend to right now.

* * *

Hannibal is letting him leave a suck-bite mark high enough up on his neck that it will be visible. Hannibal's hand is feeling his dick through his jeans. Matthew can hardly believe it. How is this his life? Months ago he would have never expected to find someone with whom he could be himself with (or _more_ of himself). Months ago he would never have dreamed of kissing a man either. But here he is. It's strange. Really strange, but it's also a fucking thrill. It's new. It's different. It's wrong. Hannibal claims to be fond of being selfish and Matthew thinks he sees it. Hannibal may put on a good show, but Hannibal runs a tight ship. Hannibal is picky -- his life, his home, his free time... All of it is controlled by him. Hannibal has a way with people, and Matthew is just beginning to see how Hannibal pulls the strings to get what he wants...

He can't fully see the picture nor is he really interested in such a thing. It's a inkling, an intuition, but Matthew is too busy for it. He doesn't bite hard enough to break the skin, but he sucks with fervor to leave a blossoming bruise. His actions do become stilted when he registers Hannibal is actually going for it. The Doctor just reaches up, undoes his belt, pulls down the zipper and works his cock out like it's no big deal. There's no fanfare whatsoever, no shy giggles or hesitancy and it strikes Matthew again that Hannibal is much more practiced than he is.

Matthew doesn't falter for long. There's still the whiskey in his veins and now it's direct contact on his cock and it all feels really great. He pulls away from Hannibal's neck to look him in the face. Matthew's lips are parted as he tries to scrutinize Hannibal. He doesn't know what to say or what he's looking for. He just knows he hadn't been expecting _this_. Matthew shudders as Hannibal's hand expertly strokes him, he's breathing harder as he leans forward to rest his forehead against Hannibal's own. He feels close, his body tight with anticipation as his hands fist into Hannibal's shirt and his hips jerk into Hannibal's hand. His eyes close and he feels his way back to the side of Hannibal's face to be able to whisper into the older man's ear.

"I think there's a pretty wicked troublemaker in ya." A light laugh. "So do you want to hear a naughty secret, Hannibal?"

* * *

This is him revealing a part of his hand. There's no hesitation in his touch, no clear concern for what he's doing, and if the way Matthew stills for a moment is any indication, Matthew is beginning to realize this. Hannibal's skin feels alight with the undoubtedly dark bruise sucked into it and he knows that he _could_ heal it relatively quickly, but does he want to? No. There's a small thrill he hadn't been expecting at the thought of wearing the mark, of courting the old human impulse to try to hide it, or merely to show it off. He imagines walking into work like this, how the whispers would circulate, how the nurses would both feel dejected and hope, for what if it had been one of them to leave it? The thought is as thrilling as it is amusing and Hannibal's hand quickens on Matthew's cock, stroking velvet skin over the hard length, feeling the dot of moisture against his thumb when he swipes it along the head. It's a thrill, particularly when Matthew draws back to look at him like he can't quite believe he's actually doing this. Hannibal looks back; there's a brief moment where he considers looking sheepish, playing up his own awkward angle, but he doesn't. He merely looks back at Matthew, in control of the moment and of the both of them as he draws each shudder out of Matthew's body.

He can feel the way his charge reacts, the way his breathing sharpens and the way Matthew leans in with a shiver to press their foreheads together. Hannibal can smell the whiskey on Matthew's breath, can smell heat and sweat and desire, and he murmurs a low encouragement, a soft, "good," as Matthew's hips begin to jerk, selfishly chasing his pleasure. Hannibal watches, rapt, breathing a little heavily himself, and while he hadn't been planning on it so soon, considering how ragged Matthew's breathing is, considering how he moves, Hannibal moves his free hand down between them to work at the fastenings of his own slacks. He's inelegant as he undoes his zipper and works his cock out, not bothering to undo his slacks fully. He shudders, breathing a soft sound as he wraps a hand around himself. It's dry, not the most comfortable, but what care has he? There's pleasure to be found in discomfort, and as he urges Matthew in closer, Hannibal groans softly at the occasional press of hot skin against his own cock. One day, perhaps, he will have Matthew reciprocate. He's content to leave it for now.

Yet nothing prepares Hannibal for the sudden thrill that Matthew's words bring him. His voice is low, amused, and telling, and Hannibal draws Matthew in close enough so that he's supporting most of Matthew's weight, stroking his cock quick and skillful. However, all of Hannibal's attention is focused elsewhere, namely on what Matthew is hinting at. Hannibal swallows and nods, his own hips jerking up enough to rub their cocks together.

"Yes, Matthew," he breathes, noting the change to his first name. "I'm listening. Tell me your secret."

* * *

Matthew is not expecting Hannibal to unzip his trousers and whip out his dick too. But it happens. Matthew can feel the hardness, the silky heat of Hannibal's cock against his own. He's not sure he likes it, but Matthew doesn't make to pull away. Hannibal's hand is still touching him, this situation still has appeal. And he has his confession to make, the words wanting to burst forth out of him.

If he's wrong, this will destroy everything, but he's not too worried about the consequences. What would Hannibal do, tell his parents of the circumstance that such an admission accompanied? Not likely. Matthew rocks against Hannibal's dick, he groans more at the knowledge of this being scandalous than the actual sensation, but it's still not bad. There's a part of him that likes feeling and hearing Hannibal respond sexually to him. It's still desire, after all.

So Matthew's lips open and he whispers about dark things he's long kept to himself, kept buried away, shoved into a closet. He tells Hannibal that, as well as imagining more creative deaths for the bodies that come through, that he also thinks about killing. He not only thinks about killing complete strangers but also so called friends and family members.

"Am... Am I bad, Doctor Lecter? Am I evil?" Matthew feels dangerously close to coming but he's not exactly bothered by it.

* * *

This is suddenly not about the physical sensations between them, though the feeling is still addictive. Hannibal cannot claim that the feeling of Matthew's cock in his hand - warm and silken - is an unpleasant sensation any more than he can claim that he's finding no sexual satisfaction in this moment. But suddenly everything between them is secondary to the breathless sound of Matthew's voice. There's a moment of hesitation, undoubtedly the last second before Matthew decides whether or not to say what he's been thinking, but when he finally relents and gifts Hannibal with what he's been aching to hear, the knowledge is better than Hannibal could have hoped for.

Hannibal listens, breathless, no surprise in his eyes as Matthew isn't truly looking at him like this. His hand slows only enough to register as mild surprise, but Hannibal doesn't stop stroking. Instead he watches, rapt, as Matthew whispers his darkness for Hannibal to hear. He talks about how he imagines deaths for the bodies that come through his office. More than that, though, he talks about killing. About how he wants to kill real people - strangers, friends, family - how he thinks about ending their lives, and it is precisely what Hannibal has been aching to hear all along. He doesn't groan, though it is a near thing, as the rush of power he feels even being this close to Matthew during the admission curls through him like dark smoke. He closes his eyes and breathes in, body wired and aroused and his hand hesitating only for a moment before he suddenly starts to stroke again. It's enough of an answer before his verbal one even comes.

"No," Hannibal breathes back, his voice low in Matthew's ear. "You are special. You are unique. You see the world differently, see possibilities where others would see nothing. You see beauty in monotony, but more than that, you see it in horror. Where others see nothing but pain and disgust, you see power and opportunity." Hannibal's hand tightens just a little, and just like that he begins to stroke again, quicker, lifting his own hips enough that he might as well be stroking them together.

Hannibal leans in then and when he speaks again, his teeth scrape hot over the shell of Matthew's ear. "You're not evil. You're just like me."

* * *

It feels beyond amazing to be finally giving a voice to some of these thoughts that have floated around in his mind. For so long Matthew's had to keep everything buried, had to smile and play normal, had to bite his tongue and go through the motions. Friendship with Hannibal Lecter is proving to be a unique experience for him. It's an opportunity for him to be himself, his _real_ self. He's damn lucky, so very lucky that he's met this strange older man and struck up a mentorship.

He feels beyond thrilled by his not-so-little confession, the excitement mixing with sexual arousal and heightening everything in a way that makes him a little sick to his stomach with nerves. Matthew maybe feels emboldened to share _more_ , but he doesn't. Hannibal's hand may have slowed while he spoke, but it didn't stop. Matthew knows now that he's right. Hannibal isn't as prim and proper as he appears. There's a little darkness, a little deviancy lurking just below. Hannibal's hand strokes faster and when he speaks softly in Matthew's ear, Matthew shivers.

 _'You are special.'_ (It's what he's always wanted to hear.)

 _'You are unique.'_ (It's what Matthew has always believed.)

 _'You see the world differently...'_ (It's how he's always felt.)

Matthew's eyes close tight as Hannibal's hand moves faster, the words like a physical caress in their own way. He pushes against Hannibal's hand, grinds against Hannibal's own cock, no longer caring about any misgivings he may have toward the other genitalia.

' _You're not evil. You're just like me_.'

And Matthew comes hard, crying out and seizing in Hannibal's hold as he spurts wetly over Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal is expecting it when Matthew finally, effortlessly falls apart. He's felt the building tension and in this moment, with metaphorical arms crushing Matthew to his chest to keep him close and contained and locked in this moment of honesty, he can hardly blame Matthew for his reaction. There is freedom in finally having it all, in finally being able to firmly state what he has kept hidden for so long. For the first time, Matthew's darkness is present, and when Hannibal feels him seize suddenly and when he feels Matthew's cock throb in his hand, he knows this isn't merely a sexual release. This is so, _so_ much more.

Distantly Hannibal finds it in himself to protest the mess made of his clothing, but it's a distant concern as Matthew shakes apart against him. Hannibal strokes him, quick and sure, and he delights in the feeling of Matthew's body shaking and the piercing sound of his cry that shatters the air. Come shoots wet onto his clothing, but Hannibal's focus is not there. Instead it's on Matthew, the pleasure in his eyes, the desperation in each grind, the way he's become careless in his desire to come. He no longer seems to care that he's rutting against Hannibal's body, against his cock, and the additional sensation helps, but Hannibal's focus isn't long to turning inward. His lip curls just enough as his effort becomes selfish in nature, and as he draws Matthew in close, his own hips jerk up into the rough drag of his other hand, eased only by the few drops of come Matthew had shot over his skin. Hannibal's breathing is rough but quiet, his hand moving quick and inelegantly over his own cock. He chases his own pleasure, hips jerking, gaze rapt on the budding corruption on his chest, and when he finally cannot contain his own pleasure anymore, Hannibal comes with a low groan, shooting hot over his hand and the fabric of his suit jacket.

*** * *** _(Now)_

Hannibal's orgasm hits him low, a pounding curl of pleasure that wracks its way almost violently through his body. There's a lack of control in the way he jerks his hips up, one hand wrapped around both of their cocks, the other grabbing at the small of Matthew's back to all but crush him in against Hannibal's chest. There's blood in Hannibal's mouth, either from his own bitten lip or Matthew's, and he doesn't care which as he gasps low, body caught in a pleasure he'd sorely missed. Once again, Matthew Brown has been nothing but a pleasant surprise, even decades later.

Hannibal keeps stroking them both until the edge of sensitivity becomes too great, and only then does he finally, wetly release the grip he has on the both of their cocks. He's careful not to smear residual come over the arm of his chair, and he makes a point to keep Matthew clutched in close, red eyes meeting black as they both fight to regain their breath. He clutches Matthew close until the aftershocks of pleasure give way to a gentle buzzing warmth under his skin, and only then does he ease his grip, allowing Matthew the freedom to draw back if he so wishes. Yet even as he does so, Hannibal can't help but notice the mess on the fabric of his robe. Though it's slightly more difficult to notice like this, he cannot help a brief roll of his eyes, as if searching for a bid for patience.

"Some things never change," he murmurs, breathless. "It's been some time since the dry cleaners have thought me a deviant."

* * *

The memory of their first time mixes and swirls with the present reality. There are similarities, but enough differences to still make _this_ memorable. Still in Hannibal's living room, still on top, but now they're closer to being equals, or at least on the same page. He knows what Hannibal truly is. He knows who Hannibal truly is. God, Matthew almost wants to laugh while he comes all over Hannibal again, gasping as pleasure surges through him. He'd been so stupidly naive and eager and _human_. He'd trusted Hannibal, depended on him, so much so that Matthew had been able to open up and disclose about his own urges. After that night everything had changed for him.

Being on top of Hannibal is familiar and Matthew is smiling as he pants, coming down from his own orgasm as Hannibal's hand begins to slow over their cocks. He smells the musk of sweat mixing with Hannibal's cologne and their contributions of come. It's all rather fun to be making a mess with Hannibal again. It's been years for them, too long really, but Matthew is fine with it. He's no longer that needy young man. Not anymore. Gazing into Hannibal's face, Matthew grins as his black eyes then flick downward to the sticky mess coating Hannibal's robe and over Hannibal's hand.

"Well, we both know the truth, don't we?" He winks and gracefully climbs off Hannibal. He'd love to see Hannibal dropping off his garments to be cleaned. There's no reason for him to linger, so Matthew searches out the nearest box of Kleenex and helps himself to a few tissues, haphazardly cleaning his dick off before putting it away and zipping up.

"Be careful with this latest one," Matthew then warns, the blackness clearing out of his eyes. "I think you're in for a surprise." Will Graham has caught Matthew's attention too, but unlike Hannibal, he won't get overly involved.

* * *

As Matthew locates the tissues (kept in the same space they have been for decades) and cleans himself off, Hannibal relaxes back into his seat. Matthew doesn't let his eyes dim immediately but Hannibal does. Slowly, the red bleeds from his eyes, the whites returning to their full vibrancy as he reaches for a tissue to at least clean his hand off. A quick glance down at his robe shows that there's little he can do for it, but he does dab at the already-drying come just to make an effort of it. As he'd expected, it does nothing, but Hannibal isn't concerned. He'll try to work the stains out himself later, but if that fails, he has no reservations about taking the robe to be dry-cleaned. Instead, he watches Matthew stand, still breathing a little heavily, and while the sight of Matthew's wink does prompt a small lift of Hannibal's eyebrow, he merely inclines his head in agreement as he stands up. His legs feel mildly unsteady but Hannibal simply gathers the soiled tissues and walks them over to the trash, tossing them out the way he'd always done in the past.

Yet as Matthew is getting himself ready (Hannibal hardly needs to as his robe is adequate coverage) the comment that Matthew leaves him with is enough to get his attention. Hannibal looks back over his shoulder and regards Matthew with a curious expression. He lingers on the warning for a moment, his thoughts lazily drifting to Will Graham and his budding darkness. Hannibal's still not pleased that Matthew had interfered in Will's dream, but the 'warning' is enough to finally pull the small curl of a smile onto Hannibal's lips. He ducks his head and turns back around, reaching one arm out to shepherd Matthew out of the sitting room, leading him to the front door almost cordially.

"I should hope so; it's been long enough since my last one," Hannibal says, because he _does_ hope for a surprise. Will Graham is an unpredictable man with a delicious spiritual sensitivity that Hannibal wishes to observe up close. Even as he opens his front door for Matthew and pauses only long enough to offer him a small smile, his thoughts are already drifting back to Will, to their appointment last night, and to the number he'd left Will. He already wonders just how Will plans on surprising him next.

"Take care, Matthew," Hannibal says politely, and once Matthew steps outside, Hannibal closes the door and locks it.

Will is a constant companion in his thoughts that night.

*** * ***

Will texts Hannibal his cell number in the morning. He's not sure what number happens to be on his file, possibly his work one or maybe Jack's? Hannibal texts back in less than an hour, simply stating that he added Will to his contact list. Will goes through his morning routine a little slower than normal, still trying to shake off the vestiges of his strange dream-turned-nightmare. As he watches his dogs tromp around happily, he thinks of the Eye completed. It hadn't been what Gray saw, what Gray had wanted, but it was still complete with him in it.

But who was that man and what did he want? ' _You know, you're going to be devoured...'_ Ominous, but Will isn't actually surprised. His dreams have long been disturbing in nature, so why should his most recent be any different? Had the man wanted _him_ specifically to burn, or all of it, the whole picture to turn into ash... Will has a feeling that the man hadn't _only_ been interested in him, but the corpses and their arrangement as well, what it meant -- what it could mean... "Well, maybe I'll ask him next time," Will mutters to himself before rounding up the dogs and heading back in.

It's easier to forget the dream after he showers and changes into clean, comfort clothing. But then he's got Hannibal back on his mind. Will goes over their last session, remembering how he stammered and squirmed. Hannibal had to know it wasn't _just_ being friends he was interested in... Will cooks breakfast, he tries to push it all from his mind and throw himself into chores. No matter how he tries to focus on sorting, on the meticulous organizing of his socks and boxers and t-shirts, Will is antsy about the whole thing. Still. It's fucking ridiculous.

So he grabs his phone and he scrolls through his contact list to 'Hannibal' and his thumb taps the CALL button. It's - he glances down at his watch - around lunch time so maybe Hannibal will be available. If not, Will can surely jumble his way through a voice message. The ringing has him swaying side to side, waiting, standing in the middle of his living room.

As soon as Hannibal answers, Will's mouth is moving, "In the spirit of honesty, I'm going to be frank and just come out and say it: I want to be more than friends and I think you know anyway. And it's probably a bad idea. I don't date often with much success, but there you have it. Ball's in your court."

* * *

Hannibal's morning passes with much less fanfare than his evening had. While it is good to know that Matthew has managed well over these past few years and while he finds himself proud of what he's been able to accomplish, the fact of the matter still remains that Will Graham will hopefully be off limits. Hannibal had made a point to try and insist on as much, but he's uncertain just how successful he'd been before Matthew had left. In the end, he supposes it doesn't matter. Hannibal feels better despite the events of last night, possibly _because_ of them. While he still resents the fact that Will's admission of his should-have-been-restful dream has been spoiled for him, he cannot deny his satisfaction over where Will's mind had wound up. Injecting himself into the eye, becoming complete, finding his peace there... it speaks well of future possibilities.

Hannibal goes about his morning as he usually does. He rises early enough to run (though he hardly needs to, but routines have their importance) and he cooks breakfast before going in to see his patients for the morning. They are, as always, unequivocally dull, with the exception of one or two, but Hannibal perseveres, enjoying even the monotony of everyday life merely because he'd earned this long ago. His thoughts linger on Will occasionally, on the text he'd received during his run, and Hannibal finds himself more than slightly curious over where this is going, or how far Will intends to take it. It's both thrilling and amusing, in a sense. Will is the one who will have to make the move Hannibal suspects he will. And, as it so happens, when lunch rolls around, Will doesn't disappoint.

He takes his break in his office, enjoying the rich notes from the record player, sipping at a glass of wine when his phone rings. Hannibal doesn't quiet the record player, but he does set his glass of wine aside when he pulls out his cell phone. A quick glance at the caller ID tells him all he needs to know, but Hannibal still lingers before he answers, letting the anticipation build up. When he does connect the call, he's expecting to exchange the usual pleasantries. He's not expecting Will to just suddenly barrel into conversation, but Hannibal cannot deny being intrigued. He quiets as he listens, and his eyebrows lift in pleased surprise as Will lays it all on the table, so to speak. It's nothing that Hannibal is surprised to hear, but he still knows precisely why Will is doing this. Once again, it's a test, a challenge, Will attempting to scare him off with brutal honesty. It takes effort to contain the amusement in his voice when he does answer, though Hannibal lingers and doesn't answer immediately. Instead he allows Will to fuss over his silence.

"In that case, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner tonight?" Hannibal asks pleasantly, lips curled into a small smile. "Or perhaps early next week, if you need more time, and would rather avoid doing so over the weekend."

* * *

This is a supremely bad idea. Will should know better than to put himself out like this. It hadn't ended well with Alana Bloom after all (not that it had even necessarily _started_ for that matter). He should try and focus on his work; he doesn't need the extra complications. He may sleep with men on occasion, but he's never legitimately attempted to date one. And he's set his eyes on Hannibal fucking Lecter? Surgeon turned psychiatrist. Posh and cultured. Christ. Aim high.

After he's delivered his statement, silence meets him. Well, not exactly. Hannibal doesn't answer him, but Will can make out classical music in the background. He can picture the vintage record player in the office. Will can picture Hannibal cherishing it, maintaining it, taking pride in the piece, his fingers--

Then Hannibal answers him and Will blinks, coming back to the present. Winston watches him curiously from his dog bed. Will's only now aware that he'd been clenching his jaw. He relaxes, probably too much. He's gotta be gaping. Doing the quintessential shocked expression like a prized idiot. Of course it's good news, but it isn't what he'd been expecting. Fuck, no. Will had thought Hannibal would be polite and dance around the topic, something like, see how their friendship progressed. But no, Hannibal is as cordial as ever and just goes all out and asks him to dinner.

"Um, yeah, sure, this evening's fine," Will mumbles when he remembers he needs to actually respond. "Although, I know for a fact that I wouldn't have anything fancy enough for where you might take me."

* * *

The silence on the other end of the line is supremely gratifying, and Hannibal savors it just as he had the wine he'd brought to his lips only moments before. Relaxing in his office, he allows himself a small smile and then slowly reclines in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as leans back, comfortable in the face of Will's shock. True, he's not surprised by Will's declaration, but that doesn't mean that he's not pleased by it. In truth, he hadn't known if Will would dare to be so bold. Hannibal is quite satisfied that he's seen fit to be brave, and he wishes quite suddenly that he could see the expression on Will's face. Is his expression lax in shock? Is he uncomfortable? As convenient as phones are, Hannibal has to admit that he misses the simplistic appeal of having Will sit across from him, his vibrant shifts of expression wild and clear, akin to an open book for Hannibal's perusal.

When Will seems to gather himself back together enough to answer, his response is awkward and clipped. Hannibal's caught him off guard then. It's getting quite ridiculous just how pleased Hannibal is that Will is so easy to rattle. Kindness seems to throw him, and one acting genuine all but floors him. It says many sad things about his past but it makes Hannibal's efforts shine through that much more. Hannibal is pleased with anything that makes him stand out, and he silently endeavors to be _more_ memorable if he can manage.

"There's a delightful restaurant on Lancaster: _Charleston_. I'm friends with the owner," Hannibal says, like Will _hadn't_ made the social faux pas of going quiet for near-on half a minute out of shock. "I have a permanent reservation for when the desire suits me. It's quite pleasant, with a broad menu and selection of wine. It caters to tourists as well, so the dress code can be more relaxed. If it's something you'd feel uncomfortable with, there's always the option of renting out one of the private rooms." Hannibal trails off, allowing it to sink in. He quite enjoys just how much sway he has over the inner workings of the more high-scale Baltimore establishments by reputation alone. More than that, he feels he'll enjoy Will's response to the knowledge.

"On the other hand, if you would rather something else, I could always extend an invitation to my home and cook for you myself."

* * *

This is apparently happening. This is now his life. Recovered from a bout with Encephalitis, still getting into the minds of fucked up killers, and now trying to start some semblance of a dating relationship with his unofficial psychiatrist, who also happens to be an older man. The thing is, this shouldn't be Will's life. He knows that they don't even have that much in common. At least in appearances there's a great divide between Hannibal and him. Hannibal is all proper and cultured, all suits and antiques and a fucking Bentley. While Will isn't poor, he lives like a hobo with far too many dogs (not in _his_ opinion). He's rough around the edges, but Hannibal seems to do more than tolerate him. But there's more than the packaging and environment they both dwell in... Hannibal is calm, tepid waters. He's quiet in a world of chaos and Will likes it.

Hannibal, of course, doesn't give him a rough time about his apparent ineptitude in responding like a normal person. Will's aware of the restaurant and the longer that Hannibal goes on, the more distinctly uncomfortable Will feels. Permanent reservation. Broad menu and selection of wine (like Will would actually care?). A private room (Will can't imagine being ushered to such a place). He's glancing down at his sock feet and once again being reminded that he's completely out of his element here. There's a reason why he doesn't do this sort of thing without some liquid courage.

The silence feels charged, but it shouldn't. Then Hannibal presents _another_ option. Hannibal's own home, Hannibal cooking for him. It's much more intimate than a restaurant. "On a weekly basis I get personal with you. I think I would like the chance to have the tables turned, so to speak," Will answers, thankfully sounding more composed than he has been previously. He takes a deep breath. "But it's not too short notice for you?"

* * *

Perhaps Hannibal can't see Will in this moment but he hardly has to. Will's silence speaks for itself. Hannibal can't see that brilliant mind working, nor can he see the panic in Will's eyes as he considers the options that Hannibal presents him, but Hannibal can almost see them regardless. Will's silence is pointed, his panic almost visceral, and Hannibal basks in those lovely seconds of silence as Will flounders for something to say, undoubtedly looking for some way to make Hannibal's suggestions less intimate. Or, perhaps, to make less of a spectacle. Hannibal imagines that Will's protests reside heavily around the idea that he might be catered to. That there would be countless eyes upon them as they were led back to the private room, servers aware of the nature of their relationship if only by the way Hannibal looked at him.

The thought is amusing and pleasing in equal measure, but it's hardly conducive to something continued. If Hannibal wants to allow Will the freedom to be himself, to bask in his presence for longer than just these short moments on the phone, he needs to offer Will something else. So he does. And while Will does take a moment to answer (a silence that amuses Hannibal more than it should) he sounds relatively put together when he finally answers.

"Certainly not. It's more than enough time for me to put something together for the both of us. You forget that I was going to cook for myself tonight anyway. I already have what I need. I'll simply make more than I would have. My wine selection is more vast anyway. Plus I have other spirits," Hannibal adds, amused, recalling the way Will had guzzled the red wine so inelegantly.

"What time would be best for you? I could have dinner ready by eight if that would work for you."

* * *

He's never had a date where it involved the other person fucking cooking a meal for him. Most women preferred to go out. They liked being treated, being spoiled. Will understands, it's nice to not have to do all the prep, cook the meal and then clean-up. It's a break from the usual, but it's also strange to be _served_ and possibly judged. Forced eye contact, the wretched small talk... Yeah, there's a reason he doesn't date much. Will doesn't know if it's any different for dating a man. He's got no clue, no basis to go off of because sure, he may be bisexual and sometimes mess around with men occasionally, but he doesn't date them. Like he wanted the extra complications...

But apparently he _does_ because he's fucking pursuing Hannibal Letter, unashamedly, too. A shitty part of him wants to rack up some bill at a restaurant and purposefully be difficult, but he knows he wouldn't go through with it, it's just tempting. More than pushing the envelope is Will's desire to step foot into Hannibal's own home and take a look into his life. He wants to learn more about Hannibal, more about his preferences and opinions and maybe he'll figure out if he can fit into Hannibal’s life.

Will has no idea why Hannibal is talking about the fucking wine again. It's obvious that Will doesn't _do_ wine, and yet Hannibal has mentioned it yet again. Thank God for 'other spirits' though. He's going to likely take part in enthusiastically sampling those.

"Could I come earlier and watch you?" Will asks, unable to resist the prospect of getting to watch Hannibal prepare something for the two of them. It has an odd allure to it. "Or is that too presumptuous or weird?" Will then chuckles nervously, a hand coming to rub at his mouth.

* * *

Hannibal knows he has the upper hand in this exchange. He's comfortable in that knowledge, as despite not being able to see Will, he can hear the awkwardness in his silence. The silence lasts a few seconds too long, just long enough for Hannibal to know that Will is considering something, but he feels perfectly content to wait. After a moment, Hannibal reaches over for his glass of wine and lifts it up, the flute delicate between his fingers. He's managed a nice three sips of his drink by the time Will speaks up. Hannibal's not entirely certain what he'd been expecting, but he can say with absolute confidence that it hadn't been _that_.

The wine glass stops mid air and Hannibal blinks. Delightfully caught off guard, it takes him only a moment to smile. He takes a single moment longer to set the wine glass off to the side, back on the coaster on the side table, and he makes no move to shift his smile now that it's in place. The benefit of his silence is that it's shifted the balance of power between them once more. What had been his shock is now Will's uncertainty and sheepishness. Hannibal can hear the soft, nervous chuckle over the phone, and the desire to see Will in his distress is difficult to avoid. Were he less controlled, he might have asked Will to call him under different means. Phones come with cameras nowadays, after all.

"That's neither weird, nor is it too presumptuous. I'd welcome your company if you'd like to come by earlier. I leave work today at six. I'll be home well before six-thirty if that works better for you," Hannibal says amiably, just enough warmth in his voice to make its presence known but not enough to be over-the-top. In truth, he's intrigued. This is not what he had expected, but now that the offer is there, how can he resist having Will in his space, much less watching him? Hannibal allows himself a small, warm chuckle. "In truth, I do enjoy an audience. I believe the culinary arts one of the least recognized. If you'll forgive my immodesty, being able to show off a little would be a treat for me as well. Though I should warn you that I might very well put you to work if the mood suits me."

* * *

Will's standing in his living room, most of the dogs milling about but a few settling in for an afternoon nap. This is his life. More than simply pursuing Lecter, he's going one step further. He should be fucking grateful Hannibal isn't _offended_ by his advances, he shouldn't be looking for more and practically inviting himself over. But he is. Will wouldn't say he has any interest in cooking, but if that cooking is being done _for_ him and by Hannibal? Yeah, Will is interested in seeing as much as he can. He'll be assertive even. Plus, it would give them more time...

He may have a few reasons for his request, but Will still feels on edge. He could be denied. This could be a blatant misstep. This could be a mistake, he could be asking for too much, could be coming across as too demanding. Hannibal doesn't seem too hurried to answer and Will has the crazy thought that maybe the older man is enjoying his distress?

But no, then Hannibal does answer him and as Will listens he gives a sigh of relief. He hasn't screwed up. At the admission that Hannibal would, in fact, enjoy it, Will can't help but give a snort of laughter as well. He's not exactly surprised; it's almost endearing that Hannibal can admit it. And then Hannibal mentions putting him to work and Will rolls his eyes.

"Oh, yeah? Going to first impress me with your culinary skills and then play teacher with me? Help me hold a knife and slice it _just right_?"

Will then realizes that this might be his lame attempt at flirting and stops. He's pretty sure flirting isn't supposed to be happening just yet.

* * *

Once again, Hannibal finds himself surprised that Will seems to be an absolute delight. There are rules written around dating and Hannibal has never subscribed to any of them. Part of this is because he dates as a cover when it is strictly necessary, or to further his own goals. He's expecting this potential relationship to be a way for him to get deeper into Will's mind. Perhaps he's merely curious to see what will happen. Yet as he listens to Will speak, as he realizes that Will is genuinely attempting to flirt with him over the phone, he cannot help the interest in his smile. He's never given much stock to the apparent rules one must follow to date. If Will has no reservations about breaking the norm, Hannibal doesn't either. It's a good way to properly outline the style Hannibal must use with this man but he finds himself pleasantly surprised.

Careful not to laugh or make his amusement too evident, Hannibal considers Will's attempt to flirt (for it could be taken as nothing else) and he waits an acceptable moment before he dares to respond. Will's silence is awkward and unsure, and Hannibal delights in how much this man believes he should be ruled by convention only to shatter all the rules at his leisure. Will Graham is definitely his most interesting patient, even if he is not officially Hannibal's patient.

"There is an art to cooking. I would not task you with anything complicated, but yes, Will. I believe I could ask you to cut ingredients for me, and if you'd like me to, I could show you a simple way. Many assume the proper way is to cut like it has offended you, but there is far more control to be had in slicing in a slow slide. I'll show you," Hannibal promises, his voice just low enough to hint at flirtation in response. "Kitchen knives are sharper than most, honed to a fine edge. Control is important unless you want to wind up injured. I could guide your hand," he suggests, and there's a small smile in his voice. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

His dogs are oblivious to what's transpiring here. Thank God. He's glad no one else is privy to this conversation. Will would pinch himself if he thought it might help, but he knows this is actually reality, though. He's not dreaming. He's really attempting to flirt. Is he succeeding? Does he want to? The concept of being _successful_ is almost just as daunting as failure. He's never wanted something - someone - so much before. Maybe it's because it seems ludicrous that he could aim this high? No. It's not that Will thinks he's trash and Hannibal is far above him. It's because the prospect of actually finding someone who isn't bothered by him, who isn't scared off and who doesn't pity him is appealing... He wants it. Will wants to be around someone like that, wants to be around Hannibal.

When Hannibal speaks, Will steps back against the door frame to his kitchen and leans against it. He's never been interested in cooking lessons but when he hears '- _-but there is far more control to be had in slicing in a slow slide. I'll show you_ ' his pulse begins to speed up. His eyes shut and Will can see the gleam of a sharp knife in Hannibal's hand, the surety in his strokes, the precision in his ministrations. It shouldn't be fucking turning him on to think about chopping up carrots or slicing through meat with Hannibal, but it somehow is. Hannibal would be close and confident--

' _It would be my pleasure.'_

"You don't say," Will murmurs, his head falling against the door frame. Shit, it's been too long if he's this easy. His dick is far too interested now. "I'm looking forward to your guidance then, Doctor, but I'll need you to text me your address after this." He knows there's no reason to stay on the line, but he's worked up and Hannibal is the cause and hearing Hannibal is fucking nice.

* * *

"Of course. I'd tell it to you now, but perhaps it would be kinder to text it to you when you're not... distracted by our conversation." On anyone else, the words would have been either too obvious or judgmental, but Hannibal makes a point to delicately taper his tone so that his words skirt around both extremes. Instead he sounds only mildly amused and interested. There's a pointed drag to his voice, something implying what might be a slow seduction, but Hannibal still keeps it subtle. Listening to Will's reaction is proving to be far more engaging to him than outright flirtation would be. Hannibal shifts back in his seat, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as the record player eases down to a lovely _pianissimo_. The swell of music is quiet now, almost whisper-soft, a seduction in itself, and Hannibal smiles at how perfect this moment is.

Perhaps Hannibal cannot see Will, but he can hear enough to paint a beautiful picture. In his mind's eye it's artistic, chiaroscuro and dynamic framing, the elegant curve of Will's throat (for Hannibal had heard a soft thump that he assumes is Will's head dropping back, given how there's a slight strain to his voice), the mess of his dark hair, and - if Hannibal is correctly inferring the roughness to Will's voice - the clear rise in Will's pants, tasteful and tempting. Hannibal knows immediately that were he to press here, were he to actually lower his voice and open a clear line of seduction that he could undoubtedly convince Will to indulge himself. Hannibal considers it seriously. Perhaps, he decides, a little more simply to ensure he's properly interested. (Yet the concept of denying him, of making him _want_ is also thrilling...)

"Though I must say, despite the fact that you need the address, I'm loath to let you go right now. Much as logic dictates that you need time to properly prepare for this evening, I enjoy speaking with you. It's been some time since I've invited someone to dine with me at my home without a written dinner invitation, but given the nature of your call, how could I resist?" Hannibal trails off and then he lowers his voice ever so slightly, just enough that it sounds almost silken on his tongue.

"Particularly given how readily you'd let me teach you. You're a brilliant man, Will. I look forward to seeing how you follow instruction."

* * *

Head against the door frame, eyes still closed, and jeans tight around his crotch, there can be no mistaking how this call has gone. It's absurd to be getting turned on over the phone and over the idea of Hannibal teaching him something ridiculous like cutting or chopping properly, but shit, Hannibal's accented voice is doing all the right things and it's kind of nice to just be letting loose for once. No bodies, no blood, no killers, no freaky feelings, just words and tone and the possibility of secondary, heated meanings that Will wants to explore. God, does he ever want to explore.

Hannibal's response is not quite blatant, but Will isn't naive enough to assume that the Doctor _isn't_ aware of his current condition. However, Hannibal doesn't sound chiding or cruel. Will doesn't even care that Hannibal knows. He feels emboldened. He can hear Hannibal's interest in this - in _him_ \- so who cares? He'll be a little shameless. He'll give himself a fucking break for once. Maybe they'll do nothing other than eat and fuck tonight, but it's going to be good. No regrets.

Hannibal's voice is pure temptation, words all rational but just enough hinting to keep things fun. '-- _but given the nature of your call, how could I resist?'_ Will gasps and then wets his lips. He pushes the phone harder against his ear, not wanting to miss anything. Then Hannibal fucking comments on looking forward to how he follows instructions and Will has to take a steadying breath in. His mind is going wild with possibilities. Maybe Hannibal Lecter is actually a kinky bastard. Maybe tonight he'll find out just how kinky.

"You, uh, want to instruct me, do you?" Will asks and he can hear the desperate edge in his voice. (He still doesn't care.) "You're already in a position of power in your career, that follow over to your bedroom, Hannibal?"

* * *

Perhaps there is a part of this that is ill-advised. Hannibal doesn't _need_ to cater to Will's whims in this, particularly not when he feels equipped to guide Will down the path he wants to show him without the hassle of a relationship. That doesn't mean he doesn't _want_ to cater to Will's whims, though. It's been decades since someone has caught his attention with quite this much ferocity. Hannibal doesn't often indulge like this, but as he listens to the slightly-labored sound of Will's breath, as he listens to the micro-movements over the phone that send a lick of heat racing through him despite Matthew's visit not too long ago, he feels like Will Graham could make it far too easy to indulge. Hannibal sits there, silent but attentive, and he enjoys the small sounds that Will likely doesn't know he's making. He enjoys the rustle of fabric, the slight hitch to his breathing, the way his voice has gone from somewhat sharp to downright rough with a want that he likely can't hear. It's a beautiful aria of a different sort.

Will's gasp and the slight creak of the plastic under his hands is doubly satisfying, and Hannibal allows himself a smirk as Will struggles to find his voice again. Or perhaps it's as he struggles to regain his self control. Yet when Will finally does answer (and _oh_ his voice is alight with such desperation) there's very little self control to be heard. In fact Will does the opposite, taking teasing, playful expectations and using them to bash the door in. Hannibal's lips spread into a wider smile. Will finds comfort in his shock value, clearly, whereas Hannibal enjoys a subtler manipulation. Or... no, not shock value. _Challenge_. Challenge versus coercion.

Hannibal's tongue wets his lower lip and as Will's boldness becomes clear, the rest of his day melts away like smoke between his fingers.

"I believe we spoke of that, albeit briefly, in our last session, did we not?" Hannibal asks smoothly, though with a curl of something else present. Perhaps he is not blatant with his flirtation, but nor is he entirely subtle. "We spoke of control, of how you held onto it when you could, and I told you I valued my control as well. I wasn't simply being facetious. Though admittedly I was not thinking about it in terms quite as... suggestive as this. But considering how personal you've allowed yourself to become with me, perhaps I owe you the same in return. That is, after all, what part of tonight is for: equal footing." Hannibal pauses only to reach for his wine glass so that he can take a sip. It injects a pregnant pause into the moment for proper effect.

"Yes, Will. I have been known to enjoy control in many places. My bedroom is not exempt."

* * *

He's crossing lines. Will has no doubt of this. He could go further. He could use his free hand and touch himself... He could palm at his erection through his jeans or even unbuckle them and slip his dick out through the fly of his boxers and jerk it. Fuck. He shouldn't be considering it. The realization shouldn't even have occurred, but nevertheless it's happened and he can't unthink it. It's in his fucking head, an insidious desire to go further and push the boundaries like an asshole because he knows Hannibal didn't start this.

But Will doesn't push. He hears the soft sounds of classical music in the background, but it feels faint over the sounds of the blood rushing in his veins and his own slightly labored breathing. It's probably pathetic that he's _this_ easy, but whatever. Will wouldn't say he's especially vanilla or kinky in the bedroom, but he knows a little about the idea of someone giving orders or taking control. It could be in roleplay, or simply a Dom-sub type of thing, but he's been with a few people who enjoyed being told what to do. He's even allowed himself to be ordered around for a bit with more dominant partners.

Hannibal prefers to respond more artfully. Will doesn't exactly mind. It's almost a playful game between them now. To be honest, he kinda likes it. Will listens to Hannibal creatively respond to the question, touching on their most recent session and then bringing it back to the more suggestive topic at hand. Hannibal gives a pause that Will fucking knows is for effect so Will purposefully shifts his hips to feel the drag of fabric against his cock and bites his bottom lip, a small groan made as Hannibal finally gives him a yes. Two can play at that game. (He doesn't know if Hannibal is even turned on right now, but Hannibal is playing along and declined to end the call so Will is going to hope for the best.)

"And would you like to instruct me in-in the bedroom as well?" Will squirms again, enjoying the drag and arousal.

* * *

This is quite ill advised and Hannibal knows it. Yet the question for the ages is whether or not he _cares_. He has a monopoly on ill-advised decisions, often as the one advising them. Logic can easily dictate that this is not a good idea, that he shouldn't be encouraging Will in this endeavor, and yet Hannibal hasn't hug up the phone yet, nor does he intend to. The question remains: how far can he push before Will backs down? Perhaps it's not a good experiment to partake in over the phone but Hannibal cannot help his curiosity. And, though he is much more composed about it, the fact that he can feel the coiling tightness of arousal low in his body does not make his decision any easier. He wets his lips slowly, like there's a way to chase Will's taste off of his lips despite having never partaken in it, but he's rewarded by this continued endeavor by the soft groan he hears over the phone. Hannibal falls silent to listen to it and wonders - not for the first time - how Will's self-control will manifest itself.

For a relationship, this is highly unorthodox, yet given the way Will had called him and demanded attention, it is not surprising. Hannibal can imagine Will as a man who finds his sexual partners at bars, with low lighting and alcohol to block out the majority of his nerves. No expectations, nothing messy. It makes _this_ encounter so much more poignant, as Will is actively playing this game. He hasn't asked Hannibal to take him to bed, hasn't done more than imply. With his eyes closed, Hannibal can hear the mild shifting of fabric but he hears no evidence of skin on skin, or the slickness of lubrication. For all that Will apparently _wants_ , he's not taking. Interesting... and thrilling. Once again, this man has been a surprise.

"I believe _that_ is a loaded question, my dear Will," Hannibal says smoothly. "Perhaps a conversation that we should have in depth later tonight. However... would I _like_ to? Yes. As engaging as I find your mind and your insight, I would be lying were I to imply that I don't also find you physically attractive. Whether or not I would act upon that desire, however, would be entirely up to you." Hannibal trails off, listening to the shift of fabric, and given the rhythmic motion to it, he can almost see Will squirming in his mind's eye. He slips one hand down, resting it on his thigh, allowing himself the indulgence of the fabric of his slacks pulling tight over the line of his cock.

"It is not always easy to give another control, much less over something as intimate as desire and pleasure. To be told what to wear or when to see me would be one thing. To be told not to touch yourself would be another matter entirely. It would be difficult."

* * *

Will can hardly believe how fucking forward he's being, especially without any alcohol in his system. This isn't like him. It really isn't. Will has always been pretty straightforward, but when it came to sex, he usually had at least a bit of alcohol to take off the edge. Good 'ole social lubrication. Thankfully, he's ability to empathize with people made it fairly easy to pick out those in a bar that were simply looking for a good time, few questions asked. One night stands we're simple and clean.

While it hadn't been Will's intention to merely hookup with Lecter, dinner and sex seems like a pretty good deal to Will. He can happily go for that. He can skip on the dating and potential relationship part too. Will figures once he gives it up, Hannibal will also be done with him in that regard. It would be for the best. Yeah.

He has no idea what to do with being called "dear Will" but he says nothing, rapt and hanging onto every word Hannibal is gifting him with. Christ. He doesn't know why he's so fucking turned on by the mere prospect of Hannibal wanting to instruct him sexually. Hannibal isn't even blatant. It's all proper, but with a hint, a tease of a possible more. Will hasn't seriously done much submitting or being bossed around, but he knows a little. He knows enough that he can feel his cock leaking now. But then Hannibal mentions what sounds like examples phrased as a warning. Told what to wear? When to see Hannibal? Told to not touch himself?

"Difficult is okay," Will grits out, breathing through his nostrils. "It's difficult right now, Hannibal..." He groans softly. Shit. Should he... "Not-not touching myself right now but I'm sure you know I'm hard and aching to." The admission is out and it then hits Will how fucking absurd he's being. His eyes open and he laughs derisively at himself, trying to reel himself back in. "Christ, sorry. I'm not... I'm not usually like this, I swear. I'll stop."

* * *

There's potential in this encounter, a whisper of _more_ that Hannibal enjoys. The desire to court Will's apparent submissive tendencies is something he'll explore in more depth later but Hannibal doesn't _only_ want that. Will's mind - his darkness, the hint of what he can _see_ if he looks hard enough - is what has truly drawn Hannibal in. Everything else is only a bonus. Provided Will doesn't lose that miraculous mind of his to submissive drivel, Hannibal has no qualms in allowing him to skirt along that line. He'd be lying were he to claim that the thought of Will following his orders isn't thrilling. He'd be lying were he to claim that the thought of Will on his knees, or Will wishing so badly to touch himself but resisting the urge on Hannibal's command isn't arousing in itself. The more he speaks, the deeper Will's breathing becomes, and Hannibal knows immediately that if he doesn't strictly put a stop to it, Will may not heed the warnings. Again it's a thrilling thought, one that settles heat low in his belly.

Will's admission shocks him, but it does nothing but please Hannibal. Lips spreading into a slow smile at the confirmed knowledge that Will isn't touching himself, _and_ at the way Will almost immediately attempts to backtrack once he's said it, Hannibal allows himself a short moment of would-be-stunned silence. Such a careful line to skirt. Feigning shock while not also simulating disapproval. Hannibal draws in a slightly sharper breath - the only audible indication that he's as affected as he is - and he takes a second to temper his own urges before he replies.

"Your offer to stop implies that you think I don't enjoy this. As you said, Will, I know. I've known. Have I stopped you yet?"

Hannibal glances down at his watch for a quick, cursory check, and he finds himself quite displeased over how little time he has before his next patient arrives. In a way, perhaps it's a good idea. Will Graham is not something to be taken and used so quickly. If Hannibal has his way, he will last a long, _long_ time. So while he does wish to chase the hint of what Will is suggesting, he knows he shouldn't.

"Though that said... I regretfully do need to leave shortly. I have a patient arriving after lunch. Rest assured that this conversation would not end otherwise, but perhaps we can continue it this evening if you are amenable. _Exactly_ as it is," Hannibal adds. He's not blatant with it, but he believes he has gotten his meaning across. He doesn't wish Will to touch himself before then.

* * *

He'd like to claim that he's mortified, but Will knows he isn't. He's surprised by himself. Shocked, maybe chagrined with a dash of embarrassment, but it's not nearly enough to have him disconnect the call or cancel their plans. No. Will is damn set on having his dinner-date with Hannibal Lecter. And if he's lucky they'll mess around and maybe his attraction or crush will be sated and he can move forward from it. Will would still like to keep Hannibal as his unofficial therapist, but getting rid of these other feelings would be very convenient.

Hannibal is right, of course. He hasn't asked Will to stop. Will stares ahead at the wall, breathing evenly (and hopefully quieter). He'd love to get off, but having the problem go away altogether is equally appealing. Fucking human nature. Gratification or the absence of the symptoms and no in-between. Will is quiet when Hannibal continues. Will is once again surprised that he finds himself disappointed that their call is coming to an end. It's also an escape... But he'd been having fun, apparently. Some side of him, at any rate.

_'--but perhaps we can continue it this evening if you are amenable. **Exactly** as it is.'_

Will understands the implied meaning. Hannibal doesn't want him to get off. That's... doable.

"Okay, I'll see you later this evening," Will replies. "Goodbye." He disconnects the call once Hannibal has bid him farewell. Will adjusts himself before pushing off of the counter. He decides the quickest boner-killer will be his personal research and notes about the Ripper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That is what it is to be known, Will," Hannibal breathes quietly. One of his hands lifts, and the tips of his fingers brush against the sharp angle of Will's jaw, tracing it with the care one would a knife for fear of getting cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really fucking good btw. lol (•̀o•́)ง And no one loves our stuff more than we do!?
> 
> Matthew/Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Hannibal texts Will his address, along with a time to arrive that evening, but their correspondence after that is nonexistent. 

Unprofessional as it might be, Hannibal's focus wanes during his appointments that afternoon. As he had last night once Matthew had left the house, Will is lingering in the back of his mind. Hannibal attempts to pass as attentive and he doesn't shirk his duties (though really, what need has he to _work_ aside from a vague attempt to chase the temptation of feeling human once more) but he's distracted as each patient comes and goes. By the time the end of the day rolls around, Hannibal vaguely finishes his notes in a way that will surely irritate him later but his mind is not on his practice. 

It's still on Will, on how he'd sounded on the phone, how he'd shocked himself in that moment. Hannibal finds himself wondering whether or not Will had heeded his subtle command, and as he dons his tightly-woven woolen jacket and winds his scarf around his throat before locking up the office, he wonders how the evening will go.

The drive back home is uneventful, the Bentley's cabin filled with light classical music. Hannibal doesn't rush to get home; he'd told Will precisely when he'd arrive and despite how interesting a man he finds Will Graham, some social constructs are to be upheld. Hannibal takes his time in driving back, and once he arrives at his home, he merely pulls into the driveway and gets out of the car, stepping inside. 

He hangs his coat up by the door and unwinds his scarf, then immediately goes to the kitchen to check on the meat for the evening. Hannibal briefly entertains the thought of retiring what he'd selected. He gets so little of it nowadays... and yet what better man is there to share such a meal with? Satisfied, Hannibal walks to put music on in the lounge that he can hear while in the kitchen, and then Hannibal walks upstairs to get changed. They'd not specified a dress code for the evening and so Hannibal doesn't indulge himself fully. Instead he changes into a navy suit with faded red threading visible only up close, complete with the vest underneath. His shirt is simple - white and crisp - but his tie is heavily patterned. 

Hannibal walks back downstairs and takes a moment to hang his suit jacket up in the kitchen, then casually rolls up his sleeves so that he can wash his hands and begin properly kneading the residual tension out of the meat in front of him. Will won't be long now unless he's managed to talk himself out of this meeting, but Hannibal has faith that he hasn't. Will is far too curious.

And, sure enough, when he hears the faint knock on the door - almost too meek for what this moment is - Hannibal takes a moment to wash his hands again before walking to the front door. He waits only a brief period, prolonging his own enjoyment, and when he opens the door, it's with a small, pleased smile. Will stands there, looking out of his depth and smelling faintly of alcohol, but not enough to be insulting. He looks _good_. 

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says warmly, and steps aside. "Please come in. May I take your coat?"

* * *

Pouring over his old Ripper notes and the files he's copied does, successfully, kill Will's boner. It's a small victory and Will is almost surprised at how quick he's able to shrug off both the physical and mental arousal and delve into the case. He doesn't know why _this_ particular case has latched onto his mind. There are tons of cold cases, especially ones more recent and yet... And yet Will can't shake off the feeling that there's something he's missing - something they've all missed. When Hannibal's text comes in, Will almost feels guilty about the blip in his concentration. He quickly gets back to it.

"The Ripper loved his work, he took great delight in creating his pieces," Will comments to himself, licking his bottom lip thoughtfully. A few dogs perk up from their beds at the sound of his voice, Zoe specifically cocks her head to the side. "Ignore me, I'm talking to myself," he tells them. "Don't worry, I'm fairly certain I'm still sane." With that stated, Will looks back to a dated copy of a photograph of the notorious severed-tongue-turned-Bible-bookmark. Even Will thought it was kind of amusing and poetic. 

"He wouldn't have stopped. He _couldn't_ have stopped. He was creating his own theatre, elevating the ordinary, but also surgically removing organs." Will pauses and scratches at his beard. "But not really as trophies, no. He wouldn't have kept them in some mason jar, pickled and put in some pantry. Would have been gauche." Ellie makes a sleepy snuffle sound and Will regards her. "Of course I can't prove that the Chesapeake Ripper was a cannibal, but I bet he fucking cooked 'em up. No one at the Bureau is interested in that little theory. They're content to leave it be. No answers. No similar killings in decades, so let the file rot."

Will sighs and puts the photo down. Of course it makes sense to let the past remain in the past. Assuming the Ripper had been between the ages of twenty to forty or so, there's a good chance he'd be dead or in a retirement home. It was good that the killings had stopped, right? (But something still irks him, like a gnat burrowing, Will wants to pick and pick.)

When he finally notices the time, Will somewhat reluctantly leaves his latest pile of notes and gets dressed. He chooses a nicer salmon colored button down shirt with dark trousers and a belt. He wets his hair and tries to style it, tries to at least look like he put some effort in. He considers shaving but he knows he looks oddly young and that's not especially the look he's wanting to go for. Will searches for some different cologne and after a good five minutes of searching, he simply goes for his usual. He's felt a low thrum of nerves the entire time getting ready, but as he's driving, he can't drink enough to take off the edge. 

Will takes a shot anyway and he fills up a flask to take with him. He slips his glasses on because habits are hard to break. He lets the dogs out and feeds them early. Will actually uses a roller to de-hair himself the best he can before grabbing his usual jacket and heading out to his car. It's cold and he should have grabbed winter attire but he hadn't been fucking thinking. Oh well. Will cranks on the heater in his car and tries to not fidget with the radio the whole way to Hannibal's house. He parks and takes a few swigs from the flask before stowing it away in his glove compartment. Will takes a deep breath as he exits his vehicle and locks it. He takes even strides towards Hannibal's house which is quite nice, but subtle. He sees a fancy knocker on the front door and decides to forgo the doorbell in favor of it. 

He hears Hannibal come to the door... And Hannibal doesn't open it immediately. Will almost wants to laugh at the thought that Hannibal could be _purposefully_ making him wait, but then the heavy wood door is swinging open and Hannibal-- Hannibal is wearing a suit, or at least a vest and tie even while at home and while cooking. Will's second observation is that the white dress shirt sleeves are rolled up and it's kind of sexy to see Hannibal's forearms... Will blinks and thankfully his body starts to work and he steps inside. 

"Uh, hey, good evening." He's on autopilot as he begins to unzip his coat to shrug it off, but then turns to allow Hannibal to remove it for him. 

"Thanks." Will then slips off his boots and then adjusts his glasses, avoiding direct eye contact as he takes in the entryway. "Nice place... but I'm sure you know that already and I officially suck at small talk."

* * *

Hannibal's answering chuckle is light and polite as he unzips Will's coat with quick fingers, then steps in behind him to help him shrug it off his shoulders. He gathers the fabric in his hands, noting how light it is for the chill in the air, then turns to hang it up on the coat rack. Much as Will's attention had been briefly caught by the sight of him, so too is Hannibal's attention caught by Will. There's a slightly rugged appeal to the way he looks, his hair styled idly, his cologne perhaps not the best but still strictly _Will_. Hannibal enjoys the color of the shirt, the way it brings out hints of pink in Will's complexion, but he merely allows his slower appreciative glance to speak for itself. 

"Nonsense. Thank you; it suits my needs. But please, don't feel like you need to force yourself to make small talk. I put no more expectation on you now than I do during our sessions. Less, in fact. Please, if you would, follow me. I'll get you a drink, and perhaps once I've tended to the meal properly, I'll show you around." Hannibal's smile is more in his eyes than anywhere else, but he doesn't wait to hear Will's answer. Clearly in his element, he turns just slowly enough to let Will know he's welcome to follow, then leads the way down the hallway to the doorway that leads to the lounge.

The room is decorated like most rooms in the house, the colors dark but welcoming. Perhaps the artwork on the wall is niche but Hannibal has his tastes and he's never strayed from them. The lounge is an open room with pristine leather furniture, a fireplace, dark floors, and a large selection of wines and spirits lining the far wall. Hannibal selects a diamond-patterned tumbler with a heavy bottom and - after a moment of consideration - selects an aged scotch he feels Will might enjoy. He pours Will a few fingers of the amber liquid and then stoppers the bottle again, putting it exactly back in its place before handing Will his glass. 

"Please do let me know if that is more to your tastes. I'll not ply you with wine when there are better alternatives." 

There's mirth in Hannibal's eyes, but it's not judgmental. He merely waits to ensure Will has his glass, then gestures once more for him to follow, leading the way back into the kitchen. Unlike the sitting room, the colors aren't nearly as dark here, with polished appliances and the ingredients already laid out. In truth, leaving the meat on the cutting board had perhaps been a little bold, but as Hannibal walks over to the counter and selects a white apron to wind around his waist, tucking his tie safely away, he doubts Will is going to see anything but a haunch of unidentified meat. 

"There's a little prep-work before this will go into the oven to cook for about an hour. Would you like to watch, or help?"

* * *

It's more than a little weird to be having a man take off his coat. Will is used to helping women take off their's, but not in reverse. Once again, Will's reminded that he has no idea about same-sex dating. Not that they _are_ dating. This is going to be dinner and sex. Hopefully. Then they can both move on because Will knows, he _knows_ he's not relationship material. Alana had known it and Hannibal would surely find out. It would only be a matter of fucking time. Will knows himself. He knows what works. One night stands work for him. Being on his own with his dogs works for him. Hannibal Lecter... surely wouldn't. 

But Hannibal's eyes also linger over him in appreciation. Will feels a curl of low arousal already and mentally curses himself... If he'd just gotten off at home, he'd be better now, less susceptible, less easy. He could have lied, could have danced around the topic. Maybe Hannibal hadn't even been serious about it. Because Hannibal is effortlessly playing the ever gracious host and leading him through the lavish house that, of course, has some sort of sitting room with a shit ton of booze. (In comparison, Will only has a cupboard dedicated to his spirits.)

Will has no idea what to say. In Hannibal's company, he wonders if he should have put on a tie, but he's fairly certain his ties don't even match anything he has. He only wears a tie when he's teaching or giving lectures at the local college. Sometimes at conferences, but not always. 

No. No. Hannibal likes him genuine. This is fine; _he's_ fine. Will becomes more fine when the alcohol is passed to him. He can smell the smoky notes as he brings the tumbler to his mouth and takes a sip. He makes an appreciative hum as the flavor fills his mouth and he swallows gratefully. He's always been a fan of liquid courage.

"Wine's not so bad when served with food," Will mumbles, but Hannibal's already leading him on and Will trails behind with his drink. He lets his socked feet slide along the hardwood floors until they're in the bright kitchen and the flooring changes to expensive tile. Will takes another sip as Hannibal takes out an apron. Various ingredients are laid out and the gleam of a few different knives meet him. At the invitation to watch or help, a smile twitches on his face as he adjusts his glasses. 

"I'll try and help, I guess?" Will takes another sip, places the glass down and rolls his own sleeves up before going over to the sink and washing his hands. Showing initiative is good. 

"I'm pretty skilled with preparing fish," Will shares, "but that's about it. I hope I won't prove to be too much of a challenge."

* * *

There's no moment in their brief conversation that Hannibal is not entirely in control over the situation. Had Will opted to invite Hannibal over, surely the tables would have been turned, but as Will is in his house, drinking his alcohol and trailing after him like a lost puppy, Hannibal is the one in control of the moment. Even so, he lingers here and there, walking slower than he would on his own, allowing Will to drink in the furnishings and orient himself. As much delight as an uncomfortable Will Graham brings him, he does want him to eventually feel comfortable. If Will leaves this night even learning the layout of the house, Hannibal will consider it a success.

Each of Hannibal's footsteps is punctuated by a soft strike of his shoes against the hardwood - a sharp contrast to the silent shuffle of Will's feet on hardwood, and then on tile - and he feels it sets the tone admirably. To his mutual amusement and interest, instead of holding back and watching, Will opts to assist him in the kitchen. He's humble about it, awkward, but Hannibal is simply pleased he's taking initiative. True, this is what they'd been speaking about on the phone earlier that afternoon, but Hannibal had honestly assumed that Will's nerves would win out in the end. That he has opted to stride ahead in his assertiveness has not gone unnoticed. Pleased, ducking his head, Hannibal steps around Will as he washes his hands and walks to a cabinet. He pulls out another white apron and walks it over to Will, laying it on the counter beside him. 

"You're very intuitive, Will. I believe I've mentioned that before. I'm certain you'll have no trouble. Tie your apron like I have and come join me here," Hannibal instructs. He reaches over for one of the knives and then calmly sets it on the counter, offering Will a small smile. "We'll need to dice carrots and onions, and there's dill to be chopped. And, of course, there's also the meat, but I understand if you'd prefer to not get your hands _quite_ that dirty. Though if you've prepared fish, I'm certain you've seen worse." Hannibal glances to the thick cuts of meat lying on one of the cutting boards. They're no longer bloodied, at least. 

"Perhaps I'll get to sample your fish someday."

* * *

He can do this. It's just prepping. Chopping some vegetables up. No big deal. Hannibal will help him too, will make sure he doesn't mess up (not that Will assumes this will be too difficult, hopefully - he's apparently intuitive). But just the prospect of Hannibal _instructing_ _him_ makes his pulse pick up a little. This is probably supposed to be non-sexual too. Hannibal doesn't look or sound like he's flirting...

Hannibal pulls out a goddamn apron for him which is definitely not sexy, but Will isn't about to protest the practical offering. Will has no good excuse to reject it, so he grabs and ties the apron around his waist, determined to be fine. Because he _is_ fine. Cooking and flirting probably isn't a good idea anyway. They have the entire evening, really. Will glances over his options - onion, carrots and the dill. The carrots seem easiest. He's cut carrots before, anyway. Same with onion. He just doubts his knife cuts will be up to Hannibal's usual standards, but whatever. Looks don't matter once the food is in their stomachs. 

' _Perhaps I'll get to sample your fish someday.'_

What the... It _almost_ sounds like innuendo. Will's eyes squint at Hannibal before he quickly looks away and steps over to the carrots. No. Hannibal is just being polite, that's all.

"My house isn't really set up for entertaining, but I could bring some... You know, at some point. If we do this again." Will clears his throat. He needs to get a grip. So, he picks up the knife, testing the handle in his grip. The carrots are waiting on a wood cutting board already washed, but Will just looks down at the gleaming stainless steel blade. He rotates the knife, enjoying the feel of it in his hand and seeing the light reflect off the blade. Ever since Hobbs, every once in a while...

* * *

There is a difference between implication and flirtation and Hannibal believes he's toed that line well if the look on Will's face is any indication. Will pauses just long enough to look at him, his eyes squinted (Hannibal pretends not to notice) and then turns away, like he can't tell if that had been what he'd believed it to be. To Hannibal's amusement, Will follows Hannibal's comment up with an awkward rendition of exactly what Hannibal had been implying. He'd merely suggested that he might sample Will's cooking at some point - a subtle nudge that perhaps this wouldn't be the last time they'd meet like this. Trust Will to take the elegant and make it blunt. The amusement in Hannibal's eyes is only partly his own smugness. The rest is because he feels legitimately charmed by this man. 

"I'd like that," he says as he turns back to the meat on the counter, reaching out to select a sharp blade from the block beside it. Hannibal tests the weight with the flair of a man who has done this countless times. "And as of now, I see no reason _not_ to do this again." 

Hannibal reaches over with the knife, and he's just begun to hover it over the meat when a glint of something off of the wall catches his eye. Curious, he traces it back to Will and watches as Will turns the blade in his hands like he's admiring it. Interested, Hannibal hesitates and then carefully sets his knife down, turning to watch Will shift the knife this way and that. There's a look in his eye for a moment, and Hannibal feels a sudden crackle in the air, something inherently spiritual in nature that runs across his skin like a light current of electricity. Wetting his lips as Will retreats into his own mind - or his own memory - Hannibal watches him, thinking about what Matthew had done earlier that day. Perhaps Will is still feeling the effects, or perhaps...

The memory of their appointment resurfaces, of Will talking about Ms. Hobbs. Hannibal steps back then, walking to Will in silence. He reaches out, mindful of the tension in Will's arm. Hannibal steps up behind him and sets his hand on Will's shoulder, a light touch, hardly intimate in itself, but given how close Hannibal steps - how the heat from his body can likely be felt through Will's shirt - the intimacy is clear. 

"Will?" Hannibal asks. "Are you still with me?"

* * *

Garrett Jacob Hobbs had looked him straight in the eye and then slit his daughter Abigail's throat. Blood had erupted from the gash and then all Will had felt was panic as he squeezed the trigger over and over, bullets colliding with the Minnesota Shrike and eventually taking him down, Hobbs slumping to the floor. 

Too late. Will had been too late. He'd hesitated, surely. Paused, his hand shaking while aiming his gun. Maybe he'd hoped Hobbs wouldn't actually do it and would surrender (he should have known better). Maybe he'd been too afraid to pull the trigger, thoughts of murder having hung over his head for so long... Whatever it had been, it had resulted in a bad ending. Sure he'd stopped Hobbs, ended a killing spree, but all Will could really remember was his hands slipping on the spray of arterial blood while clutching futilely at Abigail's neck, Hobbs whispering ' _See_?' for some reason...

And yet couldn't he? Couldn't Will see himself holding the knife and placing the blade against a pale throat? Couldn't he keenly recall the sensation of the gun's recoil, the sound and smell of the scene, the sound of Hobbs hitting the floor... Will had killed, had felt the strange surge of power at taking a life (and stopping a sensitive psychopath in the process).

But then Will registers warmth and it has nothing to do with blood. It's a hand on his shoulder. It's Hannibal standing close behind him. Will blinks a few times before coming back to himself. 

"It would have been nice to be having conversations with you... _back then_ ," Will states, his voice dropping on the last two words. The admission honestly catches him off guard, but it probably shouldn't. It stands to reason that Hannibal could have helped. 

"Sometimes with knives... They still can get to me." Will rushes on, "Not that I'm traumatized. Just, the memory of the last Hobbs' dinner preparation having gone to complete shit, you know?" 

This isn't going well. This isn't how he wants to start off the night, so with frustration, Will takes a carrot and begins chopping it.

* * *

If Hannibal wished it, he could push. He could reach out and influence Will's mind, could at least attempt to dip his head beneath the surface, but despite how powerful Hannibal is, oppressing a person he has no interest in possessing is next to impossible. Will is strong of will in certain ways and he would not let himself be caught so easily. So Hannibal merely stands there with his hand on Will's shoulder, comforting in one way but curious in the next, his eyes bright with interest as Will registers as nothing but pain. There's a heaviness to his eyes, a shadow passing behind them, and Hannibal admires the sight. He looks lost in his own head, simple enough to manipulate, but Hannibal stays his hand. Despite everything, he finds himself distracted by how Will looks in this moment. He looks shaken, perhaps, but the sight of him like this is also a boon. Hannibal's gaze is almost fond.

It doesn't take too long for Will to come back to himself, though he does so only after blinking a few times, like he's trying to reset his reality back to something tangible. Hannibal doesn't move his hand from Will's shoulder, physically comforting even as he regards Will with interest that Will can't currently see. He listens to Will's soft admission and a note of pleased surprise curls through him, but he's not so gauche as to say anything immediately. Instead he gives Will's shoulder a soft squeeze without judgement, and he nods his understanding.

"I understand, as much as it is possible for me to understand what you went through," Hannibal says, like Will hasn't launched into a frustrated attempt to cut carrots, as if to prove to himself that he's fine. Hannibal considers their positioning for a moment and then he moves his thumb, stroking back and forth rhythmically just once. Then he moves his hand from Will's shoulder and instead reaches down to set his hand in a would-be-cautious manner against the back of Will's wrist, staying his hand. 

"But you are having conversations with me now. Just as you are free to speak with me like this, without the veil of therapy around us both. I don't fault you your response to trauma, Will," Hannibal adds, careful not to imply that Will _is_ traumatized. "If ever you would like to tell me what happened, in detail, know you're allowed. However, Mr. Hobbs can hardly get to you or anyone else now. You are safe here, Will."

* * *

This isn't actually the reason why he doesn't attempt to date. At least, it hadn't been before. Before, he'd chalk it up to not being great with people, with the small talk or with the eye contact and feigned interest. Will hadn't especially been good with coming across as charming or smooth either. Now? This? He's willingly sharing about his previous troubles. Sure, Hannibal is his unofficial therapist, but this isn't supposed to be a therapy session. He's not supposed to be delving into his shit here. He'd just had an hour of it last night, but there's something that makes it strangely _easy_ to be talking to Hannibal. (Will doesn't know if he likes it, though. It's odd. It's not the norm for him. He's used to being misunderstood and alone. It's what's been safe and familiar.)

The squeeze to his shoulder registers as comforting, but for some reason, it doesn't piss him off. Maybe it's because the words that follow aren't sugar coated. The irregular and rather harsh chopping sounds are in direct conflict with Hannibal's tone. Will's hand does stop when Hannibal's own hand comes to rest on his wrist. His eyes focus on the knife's blade rather than the point of contact. The pieces of carrot are bright against the cutting board, the slices irregular.

He doesn't want this conversation now. A conversation inviting further meaningful conversation - without the so called veil of therapy. He doesn't want Hannibal to be so damn accommodating and _nice_. Wasn't this supposed to be dinner and messing around? Then a return to the ordinary? But apparently he's only human, a part of him longing for connection (a shoutout to Stammets' fucking mycellium apparently), a part of him recognizing that Hannibal is _good_ for him on some level. 

"I don't know if I want to rely on you any more than I already seem to," Will admits. "A part of me was hoping that we'd just do dinner and fuck and then it would be over. Easy and clean. I'd still see you, but we'd be... sated in that regard."

Will knows by confessing this, he may be dooming this whole evening, but it's too late now.

* * *

As with every interaction that Hannibal has with this man, the possibility that Will might draw back and lash out is always a concern. Yet despite Hannibal's nature, he is not, in fact, a complete monster. 

He has no qualms about taking pleasure in the suffering of others, but life exists in moderation. Hannibal had been a surgeon, and a successful one at that. For every patient he'd allowed to die, for every life he'd traded for a deal, he'd saved far more. Why kill what could still be corrupted down the line? Why risk the benefit of word of mouth? Had Hannibal allowed his patients to die - had he followed his 'nature' (a laughable concept) - his reputation would have failed. He would have seen fewer patients. He would have had less opportunity to do his job. Moderation is important in his life, in his specific line of work. So while thousands of demons would have accepted his job and made a point to close deals and kill at their leisure, Hannibal hadn't. Nor will he. He's patient, and he understands sustainability, a concept few of his so-called 'kin' seem to comprehend.

Perhaps he could claim that sustainability is what has his hand on the back of Will's wrist, that sustainability is what he feels as he squeezes just enough to feel the pulse under Will's skin. Hannibal could claim so, but as he regards this curious man and feels the agony bleeding out into the air around him, tasting Will's vulnerability on the back of his tongue like the aftertaste of a rich Merlot, he knows that's not the whole truth. The whole truth is that he's intrigued, and that a very large part of him has decided that he _likes_ Will Graham. 

Even while suffering, even while staring resolutely ahead, his gaze haunted and his lips thin, there's a fire in Will's eyes. Hannibal can respect such a firm desire to survive, to _sustain_. Will may be broken, but he is not shattered. His edges are sharp and bared to injure anyone who ventures in too close. He's guarded _against_ a healing touch. Hannibal cannot help but be drawn not only to Will's spiritual sensitivity, but to the challenge this man poses. He's curious just how much potential Will has.

So when Will finally speaks, his voice soft, almost guilty, Hannibal doesn't move away. He doesn't shift his hand. While he's perhaps not surprised by the revelation (Will Graham hardly seems the type for a real relationship; Hannibal's amused he'd been correct), he _is_ surprised that Will is actually telling him. Even injured and balancing on the knife's edge of trauma, Will is interesting.

"There is comfort in simplicity," Hannibal agrees, careful to keep judgment from his tone. He sounds warm, but not condescending. "A single night to indulge without consequences. Like a binge before a diet. A night to look back on to sate the desires that arise after. An answer for the lonely ache that hits later - the ability to tell yourself 'I did it already' and find comfort in that. I don't fault you, Will," Hannibal says, curling his fingers slightly around Will's wrist. He only presses his fingertips there, touch light and soothing. 

"It's simple. But more than that, I believe, is it's _safe_. There is a lack of expectation with a one-night stand. There's no dependency, no reliance."

Hannibal wets his lips, thoughtful, picking his words carefully. "It would be bold to imply that this will turn out to be more than it is currently. I have no expectations of you, nor will I. But if it helps... My decision to invite you to dinner tonight was not an isolated event. It is a standing invitation. As a friend, or as something else, if you wish to join me for dinner again in the future, the invitation is open to you. Just as the invitation to talk is open to you. Everyone needs support, Will. There is no shame in being human."

* * *

This is risky. There's warning bells ringing, a 'danger, Will Robinson, danger' sounding in his mind. Honesty is precarious. It leads quickly to vulnerability, to being exposed like a damn insect pegged to a board for curious eyes. His weaknesses, his hopes, his dreams, his fears... But hasn't he been opening up little by little to Hannibal anyway? Yes, this admission could blow up in his face, but there's also a chance it _won’t_ and that's far more frightening for Will. He hasn't been able to scare Lecter off yet. He hasn't weirded him out or turned him off or managed to push him away. 

Hannibal doesn't move away now. He's fucking understanding, of course. Not offended. Not amused. Will might be relieved, but there's disbelief edged with surprise that's dominating him right now. It feels far too fucking nice to be _understood_ , to be accepted too, maybe. 

_'A night to look back on to sate the desires that arise after. An answer for the lonely ache that hits later - the ability to tell yourself 'I did it already' and find comfort in that.'_

It hits too close to home for Will. That's exactly what he would do, too. Fingers slide to touch his wrist and Will shivers. It's barely a touch - light and meant to be comforting - but it has Will feeling a little undone. Does he want _safe_? (Yes, the rational part of his mind screams.)

"You're saying all the right things," Will comments, a little incredulous. "I keep waiting for you to trip or stumble. Shit, I am probably betting on it, probably sticking my foot out, but you dance around it." 

Will's free hand reaches for his glass of liquor, alcohol is his oldest, dependable friend after all. He downs it quickly. It burns, but the familiarity is welcome. 

"You're dangerous for me," Will says, quieter. There's more that he wants to say on that matter. He's going to ignore his intuition because his intuition is stubbornly telling him that Hannibal is too good to be true and that there's something else he just isn't seeing like in the Ripper case... "But I don't think I care." 

Will steps back enough that he's now flush against Hannibal. He leans his head back, resting it on Hannibal's shoulder. 

"I think you're an indulgence like chocolate, okay in moderation but I want you in excess."

* * *

Hannibal wonders idly just how many people have strangled Will's growth in the past. Like gnarled thickets growing over a sapling, Will exhibits all the signs of stunted potential. Clinically, Hannibal can observe this phenomenon and he knows he's seen many others suffer the same, but he rarely finds himself as affected by the knowledge. Perhaps Hannibal doesn't know this man well yet, but he likes to think that perhaps he knows Will better than most others in Will's life. 

Seeing the way Will looks at him once Hannibal is finished speaking, Hannibal has to wonder just how many people have ever been kind to this man. He doesn't draw attention to it, but Will looks almost shaken as he stands there, a softer, incredulous look in his eyes that manages to look equally wary and hopeful. An abused dog looking at an offered scrap of food, expecting pain but still starving for sustenance and affection. 

The food will be provided in time. Hannibal is quite sure that affection will also follow. Perhaps he is practical, looking for sustainability, but Will Graham intrigues him. He knows, without a doubt, that had Hannibal been human, had he met this man on equal ground, he would have wished to take him under his wing even then. So when Will reaches for his liquor, Hannibal lets him. He lets Will speak. He hears Will call him dangerous (true) but also that he doesn't care (which is a pleasant surprise) and something akin to fondness tickles at the back of Hannibal's mind. It's been a long while since he's felt it, outside of his pride towards Matthew earlier that morning.

When Will steps back, Hannibal's posture is already open. They move as one, Will moving back and Hannibal's arms opening wider, like it had been something they'd practiced instead of Will being bold and Hannibal intuitive. Will's head comes to rest on his shoulder, the long column of his throat somewhat exposed as it had been on the phone (Hannibal is sure) and how it had been during their appointment. Hannibal likes Will's throat, though he is very careful when he moves his free hand up to delicately clasp Will's other shoulder, just barely close enough for the side of his hand to brush against Will's throat. 

"Perhaps it's lucky for us both that I'm rather quick on my feet," Hannibal says softly, warmly, referring to Will's earlier comment. "And perhaps I am an indulgence, just as you are. Yet also keep in mind that _indulgence_ is subjective. To a starving man, regular meals must seem like an indulgence. To one who eats regularly, it is simply normal. So when you see me as an indulgence - assuming you mean the fact that I want to hear your opinions, hear you speak, spend time with you, and offer you the freedom to discuss your concerns - I have to wonder if perhaps your perception is different than my own. I find you interesting, Will. I enjoy our appointments more than I do my others. I like hearing you talk, hearing your insight. Regardless of what this becomes, I wish to also be your friend. Having a friend care, enjoy your presence, and offer assistance when needed is hardly an indulgence." 

Hannibal's hand shifts then, just a little, just barely enough to brush his thumb over Will's throat. "I'm beginning to believe that you deserve to be spoiled."

* * *

Still, Hannibal does not draw away when Will moves and leans back. He adjusts to Will, allowing Will to fit against him. Hannibal feels sturdy. Warm. Fit. Masculine. It's kind of nice. Different, but nice. If Will had to use the word, he'd say he hadn't _cuddled_ with a man before - not that he can remember anyway. A few women, sure, but men had always been strictly a sex thing. Not that _this_ is cuddling. Because it's not.

Hannibal's hand lifts, grazing against his neck. Will tries to hold back the shiver from the slight touch. Then the hand is placed gently on his shoulder and it feels grounding. Hannibal's tone is warm and inviting and Will exhales slowly, feeling drawn in. He closes his eyes, listening intently, almost lulled. It should feel stranger to be doing this, but it's not somehow. Everything from Hannibal's accepting posture to his words tells Will ' _this is all right.'_

Hannibal likens him to an indulgence as well? The thought settles warm in his chest. But then Hannibal goes on. Will understands what Hannibal is getting at. Hannibal probably thinks of him as some kicked puppy, abused and needy, but the truth is, Will knows he's pulled away from the world. Will has put himself into this position willingly. Will knows exactly what's going on in his head, what's easiest for him, what works best, and it's being alone. It's being more guarded. Because he's different. It's how it's always been and he's had his whole life to experience his difference.

A thumb brushes over Will's throat and a small gasp leaves his mouth as he parts his lips. _'I'm beginning to believe that you deserve to be spoiled.'_ Will's go-to response normally would be to scoff, but he doesn't. Not this time. Not with Hannibal who could very well spoil him. (And a greedy part _wants_ , wants to know what that would look like.) 

"We'll see," Will responds and he blatantly arches his neck, hoping for another touch. Apparently he likes it. He thinks Hannibal likes his neck too. "I'm going to warn you... Once something catches my eye, once I deem something worthy of my attention, I can get obsessive. I'm not the type of guy for the faint of heart."

* * *

The arch of Will's neck draws Hannibal's attention almost as much as his words do. Though seeing as Will is still speaking, Hannibal considers only a moment before he takes the invitation. His thumb presses to Will's throat again, less subtle, more blatant, and he breathes a soundless sigh of quiet interest. He can feel the thrum of Will's pulse under his thumb, can feel the way Will fits against his body like he'd been made to stand there. Considering Hannibal has control over his own appearance and yet Will is _still_ a perfect fit, this means far more than the alternative. 

So he lets himself indulge. He touches Will's bared throat, tests the muscle and skin, feels the warmth and steady beat of Will's heart. It is a visceral allowance and Hannibal enjoys it, for this is the most contact that Will has ever allowed. Hannibal leans in, breathing in quietly, and while Will's scent is still clouded by his cologne (surely Hannibal can find him something better, something that complements his natural scent more) Hannibal enjoys what he can sense. 

It doesn't escape his notice that he has only touched Will sparingly in the past. He's allowed his touch to linger whenever he helps Will into his jacket, he's placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, and he's touched the small of Will's back only to guide him around. This - the press of Will's body along him from the chest down - is indulgent by comparison. It doesn't take Hannibal long to decide that he likes it.

"Warning received, and respectfully set aside," Hannibal says calmly. His voice is lower, honoring this intimacy that surely has developed too quickly, yet still feels welcome. "I hardly believe the faint of heart can follow the callings I have, Will. Surgeon of the body, and now metaphorical surgeon of the mind. I've seen far more than I believe I can properly stress. But then... you can likely say the same. Besides, if we're being entirely honest, I must admit that I have a tendency to get obsessive as well, when I believe the person is worth it. You," Hannibal says approvingly, "are worth it."

Hannibal's hand slides over then, and just for a moment, he lays his palm over Will's throat. He doesn't squeeze, doesn't do anything more than stroke his fingers just above the collar of Will's shirt. Then he slides his hand back down and leans in closer, just enough to guide Will a step closer to the counter. He reaches for a carrot with his free hand and uses it to move the irregular pieces Will had already chopped away away from the cutting surface. Then Hannibal guides Will's other hand over and - directing him to place the tip of the knife down against the board - he slowly rocks the blade back in a steady chopping motion, like waves lapping at a beach. Each cut is uniform. 

"Now... if you place the tip of the knife against the board and move it only to chop, you have far more control over where the blade goes. Trust the knife to do its job, and merely focus on moving what you're chopping. And remember to mind your fingers," Hannibal adds, with a hint of an amused breath. "I admit, I often find this rather cathartic. A good balm for a troubling day."

* * *

Because Hannibal has willingly elected to touch his wrist and neck, Will thinks Hannibal likes these places. Places where his pulse can be felt, vulnerable places for blades. The touches _before_ had been practical; they'd lingered here and there, but they hadn't been near this personal. This is different. Hannibal's thumb is gentle against his skin, stroking and learning the feel of him. Will has the flash of a wolf grasping the throat of its prey and clamping is teeth in its flesh, the intent to crush the windpipe to take them down to eat. It should probably disturb him, but a predator being a predator is _natural_. Wolves hunt. (' _People hunt_ ,' his mind whispers insidiously and Will knows it doesn't mean hunting animals.)

He has the bizarre realization that Hannibal just _smelled_ _him_. Will's about to comment on it, but then Hannibal answers him. (And really, who cares? Will has the urge to smell Hannibal too.) Once more, Hannibal does not relent, he's not put off by Will's warning. Hannibal's voice is a smooth slide against Will's senses. Hannibal speaks of his "callings" and Will has to agree - Hannibal likely has seen his fair share of shit too. Hannibal takes it a step further, admitting that he, too, can be obsessive. Apparently Will is worth it. Will had claimed to be obsessive when some _thing_ caught his attention. Because truthfully, he's never found a some _one_ interestingenough to do just that. Alana Bloom had been close, but Will had been too busy hoping he hadn't been going crazy to truly obsess. 

There can be no mistaking the excited sound that escapes his mouth when Hannibal's palm covers his throat. Will thinks Hannibal is going to choke him. Will can see Hannibal doing it, his hand tightening, the pressure increasing, oxygen being cut off. Will can see himself letting it happen. Will can see himself struggling and enjoying the fight, all the while knowing that Hannibal could overpower him. 

Then the touch is gone. Hannibal acts fine, like nothing out of the ordinary. Hannibal just nudges him forward and then it's back to the dinner preparation. Will is still rapt. It's still Hannibal's hand over his own, it's still a knife they're utilizing, it's still Hannibal instructing him. Will follows along. It's not complicated, but with any newer skill, it will take practice. 

' _Trust the knife to do its job'_ almost has Will snorting. He knows what blades can do. But then Hannibal admitting that he finds this cathartic after a troubling day... That catches Will's attention. It serves to remind him how very little he knows about Hannibal.

"I want to know more about you," Will says slowly. "I want you to be as exposed as I feel at times when I'm willingly telling you things I've never told anyone else. You sit across from me, feigning mildness, politely looking away if you think I need a break, but sometimes, if I let myself really look you in the eye, even if only for a moment, I feel like you're fathomless. An abyss for me to lose myself in and the only one I can make it out is for you to be known." 

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that wants to wrap his hand around Will's throat, but not to kill him. No, as he is very quickly realizing, Will Graham is a man full of surprises. The urge is to see what Will would do, how he would react... Hannibal doesn't miss the soft sound that Will makes when Hannibal touches his throat; he knows the thought excites Will and he silently locks that away. One day, perhaps, he will test this, will watch Will's reaction and catalog his responses. But this is not that day. This, as they have so clearly indicated tonight, is not something that either of them intend to be a one-night stand. So Hannibal makes himself move, effortlessly directs conversation back to the knife in Will's hand and the gentle actions of chopping carrots for dinner.

Hannibal doesn't _need_ to remain close. Will's intuitive enough to handle this, and there is far more than needs to be done if they're going to have dinner by eight, but Hannibal finds that he's rather willing to indulge in this temptation. Will's body is warm and solid against his own, and as Hannibal glances at him, he takes silent satisfaction in the look in Will's eyes as Will watches the movements of their hands. This is a careful intimacy, akin to a courtship, and perhaps that is what Will needs. Hannibal considers it, allows his concentration to lapse just for a moment, just long enough to entertain the idea of how Will might react to honestly being spoiled. To being courted. Assuming Hannibal finds him worthy of his time, the possibility is there.

Will's voice brings him back to himself, and Hannibal blinks once, listening carefully. The knife's blade only just makes a sound as it hits the cutting board, but Hannibal's focus is not on the carrot. His focus is on Will, and it strikes Hannibal in that moment that Will is _far_ more intuitive than Hannibal has given him credit for. The look in his eyes is hidden from Will, but the satisfaction is obvious. Hannibal hums a soft sound in the back of his throat, thoughtful. 

"Beautifully said," he murmurs quietly into Will's ear, as it's closest to his lips. "And quite perceptive of you. I admit, I do attempt to be respectful to those speaking with me, which means I read body language and attempt to adapt my style to suit theirs. I wasn't aware you noticed. Impressive, Will." 

Also dangerous, but Hannibal's interest doesn't falter. That Will can read him in any way is a risk, but a captivating one. 

"As a boy, I was told by an old woman at my father's estate that I was an old soul. The sentiment has followed me throughout my life, though I would argue that I am hardly fathomless, Will," Hannibal adds, with false modesty. "I am adaptive, and I am patient. But if you wish to know more about me, I'll certainly not disallow it. Is that not what a date is for? It offers the opportunity to ask more intimate questions, to assess the values and intricacies of a person, to see if they align with your own. Or to see if you find them interesting enough to immerse yourself in their lives further. Though... I believe I should ask you what you'd like to know. Much as I _could_ tell you how old I am, or a variety of my favorites - color, style of music, food - I daresay that isn't what you'd _really_ like to know. So, for the moment, assume there are no improper questions. What would you like to know about me, Will?"

* * *

Yes, Will is aware that Hannibal needn't stay this close to him. This chopping is hardly complicated. Will could manage it. Hannibal should leave him and get busy with the other preparation if they are to have any hope of staying on some schedule. But he doesn't; Hannibal remains and Will honestly enjoys it, he enjoys the proximity of Hannibal. Will knows they're moving quick, but in a way they're also _not_. This is more akin to intimacy, it's closeness both emotionally and physically. It's nothing overtly romantic or sexual (not that Will would have a problem with that).

His admission... It's something he's just pieced together now. Will believes that he hadn't wanted to think too deeply about Hannibal before. And Will knows he's a master of repression at times. But then their last session happened. Something had changed. The simple realization that Hannibal had somehow begun to _matter_ to him. That Will liked him and had wanted a friendship. Had wanted more than that, too. It's obvious now that his interest had been piqued enough as it had Will pursuing Hannibal with an amount of fervor that was likely embarrassing.

And now they're here and the sound Hannibal makes is pleasing to Will. It seems mindful. Engaged. And Will knows, somehow, that Hannibal _likes_ what he's expressed. Maybe because it shows insight with a dash of flowery imagery. Or maybe Hannibal is prideful. It doesn't really matter as Hannibal's mouth is near his ear and his voice is soft in his response. Will stops cutting. Hannibal's words are far more important. Will has the first inclination that maybe this dinner isn't going to go as neatly as Hannibal had planned and he wonders if that will irritate Hannibal. (Will has no plans on dropping the conversion, though. He wants the conversation more than a dinner on time.)

It feels nice to have impressed Hannibal. It's been a while since Will has ever cared about such a thing. He's used to being intuitive and perceptive. He's used to his empathy and intelligence getting him ahead. It's never really mattered before. It had been a means to an end. But he likes the acknowledgement from Hannibal, apparently.

Hannibal gives him another morsel of personal information. It's Will's turn to be pleased at the offering. Old soul... Will can see it. He's not about to argue about Hannibal _not_ being fathomless; Will's said his piece on it and he's not taking it back. Adaptive and patient are words Hannibal attaches to himself. Will would have to agree with them. (Hannibal had been nothing _but_ adaptive and patient with him since they first met... But sometimes Will had felt that there had to be an ulterior motive other than building the therapeutic relationship, but nothing made sense, nothing cropped up.)

Hannibal invites him to ask, to _know_ and Will can't turn this chance down. No improper questions and no need to be concerned with the trivial facts... So he just comes out and asks, "Are you a sadist in the bedroom, Hannibal? Because I've got the impression from you that, on some level, you've enjoyed my distress a few times." 

* * *

Hannibal remembers Matthew's warning, his words about how Will might surprise him, and Hannibal cannot claim that the thought doesn't please him now. Will has already surprised him with a number of his admissions this evening. Will Graham is insightful and intuitive, and he skirts recklessness with ease. Perhaps he poses a danger to Hannibal's nature merely because he's so perceptive, but Hannibal cannot help but be intrigued. He's never shied away from the grotesque or the difficult. On the contrary, he's often drawn in by the whispers of _more_. Perhaps Will is a risk, but Hannibal has no plans to draw back, to distance himself. Instead the knife keeps chopping, Hannibal keeps Will close, and he keeps speaking until Will decides on a question.

When Will's hand stills on the knife, Hannibal allows his own to still as well, curious despite himself. For a moment, Will looks contemplative, almost curious. Hannibal isn't entirely certain what question he expects from Will. Perhaps something about his upbringing, his family, perhaps a question regarding _why_ Hannibal had chosen to become a doctor, or why he'd chosen to stop and become a psychiatrist instead. So when Will just up and asks his question, Hannibal stills almost immediately, caught completely off guard. For a moment he looks stunned and then the expression fades into something markedly pleased. Hannibal is quiet, but inwardly he feels nearly delighted by Will's boldness. Such a rare creature, this one, and so delightfully, _dangerously_ intuitive.

Hannibal knows he could lie, but he had told Will that there were to be no improper questions. He finds himself intrigued to see where this line of questioning might go. "I believe to answer that question, I must clarify your particular definition of sexual sadism," he says, which he knows is not a _no_. Will already has his answer, already has all the reason in the world to draw away from him. Hannibal isn't holding him tightly; he could break away (were Hannibal to allow it). But Will seems content enough to listen. 

"If you're asking me whether or not I feel sexual pleasure at the sight of people in pain or distress, the answer is no. If you're asking me whether or not I've enjoyed moments of your distress, the answer is yes." Hannibal's voice is still calm, still easy, like he thinks nothing of his honesty. "I suppose that might seem counter-intuitive. Let me phrase it this way: I find expressions of intense emotion fascinating on specific people. Watching another of my patients in distress would not be something I'd enjoy. Watching you in distress isn't always enjoyable either. Yet there are times - when emotion breaks down your walls and you show me what's underneath - that I find your responses fascinating. Vulnerability without shattering is attractive to me. Your powerful sense of self. I find intense displays of emotional honesty very becoming, whether they be pain, pleasure, anger, or sadness. Though I must admit that... yes," Hannibal doesn't sound uncertain, merely careful. 

"There have been a few times where I've found enjoyment in your distress. You wear your emotions like fine silk around your shoulders, Will. It is difficult at times to pretend that I feel nothing upon seeing your emotion. If you would like to simplify it into sadism, I won't stop you. I _would_ enjoy the sight of you in pain, provided it was pain within reason, and kept under strict control. Merely know that I don't find the thought of just _anyone_ appealing. Only you."

* * *

There are other things Will wants to know. A great many things, in fact. Will doesn't know very much about Hannibal Lecter. It hadn't mattered _before_. But on the same hand, Will's never cared about the facts that people readily share - the inconsequential favorites or statistics (age, date of birth and the like). Will wants to know what lies _beneath_. He wants to experience the depth and breadth of a person. What's underneath the socially constructed mask? That face everyone puts forward. He has one. Hannibal must as well.

While it's a forward question, it's along the same wavelength as their earlier call. Will no longer has a fear of pushing, or at least it's been markedly dulled. He believes Hannibal. He is _interesting_. Hannibal is _interested_ , so Hannibal will tolerate his boldness. Having a measure of confidence in something like this is strange, but Will also likes it. It's a good feeling.

Will knows of the worst kind of sadism. He's felt it. Seen it. Multiple times. He knows that there are individuals who derive sexual pleasure at the thought and action of hurting others simply to hurt them. To be evil. To do evil. But there's also simply sadomasochism in the BDSM world. Will may be aware of the types of bites perpetrators give to victims in sexual assaults, but there's a whole gamut of practices that, between consenting adults, are acceptable. He can understand the allure of domination and submission, the lines between pain and pleasure crossing, the idea of trust being fundamental in such acts. 

Will isn't afraid of the answer. He knows the answer. But he wants to hear Hannibal's response, for Hannibal to illustrate it for him. Hannibal centers his answer on _him -_ that it's not just anyone in pain or distress. Will doesn't know if he believes this claim, for surely in Hannibal's life there's been others...

_'Yet there are times - when emotion breaks down your walls and you show me what's underneath - that I find your responses fascinating. Vulnerability without shattering is attractive to me.'_

Will thinks 'vulnerability without shattering' is a striking phrase and idea. Here, too, he can see the appeal. He, too, wants to get to what's underneath. Not with just anyone, no. But with Hannibal? Yes. He wants to be enveloped in that shadow, cocooned in that darkness of the abyss--

Hannibal paints a beautiful picture in his answer. It doesn't alarm Will. It makes sense. "You're not alone in that sentiment," Will divulges. "As temperate as you've been... I want to feel the storm on the horizon." Will doesn't know where he's exactly going with this so he adds on: "I also... I also wouldn't mind any of that. Exploring that with you. Pain and control. I think it could be good for me." 

* * *

This is the moment where Will makes his choice. This is the moment where Will decides whether it's worth it to continue with this dinner or to merely walk out. Sadism in any form is a deal breaker in many areas, and to a man who faces sadism in his everyday life, who hunts those who tend to be sadistic, it runs the risk of being too much. Hannibal doesn't lie and Will doesn't shy away. Hannibal is a sadist, but not out of pleasure. No, he simply finds pain interesting. He can recall standing with Matthew and watching him carve, can recall how he'd used the opportunity to teach and how the sound of the dying had been almost cathartic. A solid rush of power. That is what he feels. Yet as Hannibal answers, he cannot fully claim that he has no interest in seeing Will in pain, in perhaps taking him to bed and watching his expression crease in discomfort. Will is a very expressive man, after all.

So Will's response is both a shock and a pleasant surprise. That he not only accepts the potential for sadism but also encourages it is a surprise, but that he would be willing to explore it is something far sweeter. Hannibal listens to Will's words - _pain and control_ \- and images flicker like wisps of smoke behind his eyes. He wets his lips quietly, and though there is much that they need to do this evening, Hannibal still doesn't draw back. Instead he turns and leans in, pressing his cheek to Will's hair to once again breathe him in. It's intimate; it's bold. Since when has that ever stopped him?

"I believe it could be good for you as well, Will. You hold yourself so tightly. You are guarded. Control is comforting, but too much control can quickly become a cage for our desires. Partaking in control because you are particular is one thing. Living it out of a sense of fear or denial is another. There are times where you speak with me that I can sense the spreading fissures in your mind, the pressure behind the dam ready to break. You contain yourself so tightly that I wonder how sustainable it is." His words are quiet and calm, not used to incite panic, nor to chide. There's merely a mild concern under the warmth, something familiar and protective. 

"Yet I would not dare to propose a complete shift in our relationship. You do need your control. I would never ask you to relinquish it all. But perhaps handing me a portion of it on special occasions would not go amiss. For instance," Hannibal adds, and there's a gentler mirth in his voice. "Chop the remaining carrots for me, precisely as I have shown you, Will. I _would_ like to feed you tonight. I am... not often so tactile on a first date; you'll have to excuse me. You bring it out in me."

Hannibal's smile is in his eyes, and he gives Will's wrist a small squeeze before reluctantly drawing his hand back. Yet even as he pulls back, he's aware that he hasn't addressed Will's other statement. He hadn't said anything on the storm that Will sees in him. Nor does he plan to.

* * *

Hannibal being calm and handing him well - adapting - is precisely why Will had grown to trust the man. He doesn't trust him completely. Will's not an idiot. But he's had exactly five sessions with Doctor Lecter, that's at least five hours of conversation, probably more when their sessions have ran over the allotted time. He's known Alana and Jack longer, but there's no way he's actually talked to them near _that_ much, not even close, really. Especially now. Alana still thinks him fragile - _unstable_ \- and Jack side eyes him, counting on him _not_ being that way.

Will may appreciate the calm front, the eyes that don't immediately grab him, but Will isn't interested in a mild mannered man. He's not interested in being coddled either. Alana had wanted to heal him, Hannibal... Will thinks Hannibal wants him to remain intriguing. Of the two, the latter is what Will is more okay with. Intriguing he can do. 

The first response Will senses is a pleasant surprise. Hannibal hadn't counted on him necessarily being all right with his answer. He definitely hadn't assumed Will would invite it. It's the people who try and _hide_ their possible proclivities that are dangerous. Hannibal has been upfront, calm and honest with him. Finding his expressions fascinating, even from a state of distress, is hardly a crime. Will can't say that he doesn't want the same. Hadn't he said he wanted Hannibal exposed and vulnerable too?

Will's keenly aware of the fact that this isn't sentiment you share on a first date, but it's far too easy to indulge in Hannibal. Hannibal keeps the game going, so Will doesn't back down. When Hannibal leans forward, his face pressing into his hair, Will pushes into the touch slightly - an assurance that he's still participating in this all. Hannibal inhales his scent. It's obvious. Daring for Hannibal, but not obscene. Will has the urge to turn around and smell Hannibal, to let his nose slide up Hannibal's neck and really breathe him in. Breathe in the scent underneath the cologne or aftershave, breathe Hannibal in.

The "reasons" Hannibal touches on are exactly why Will thinks them dabbling in such things could be good. Will does feel like his attempt to be guarded, his vigilance to keep safe and unsociable has him repressed in ways. Will, too, wonders how sustainable it really is. But he has Hannibal now, so Will wants to believe his prospects are better (they had to be, right?). 

Of course Hannibal wants to tread softly into this territory. This isn't anything anyone should rush into, but nevertheless Will wants to. Hannibal's voice may be light, may be a tease, but _'chop the remaining carrots for me, precisely as I have shown you'_ does sound like an order. Hannibal doesn't say please; Will doesn't want him to either. The disclosure that Hannibal isn't often this "tactile" has Will's lips quirking at the corners. He likes the idea of him having such an effect on Hannibal. On having the ability to change things.

After a small squeeze, Hannibal lets go of him and steps away. The space around him feels far too empty now. Will had liked Hannibal almost pressing him into the counter, their body's aligned, Hannibal being able to lean in and smell him, Hannibal able to help him with the knife... But back to reality.

"Honestly, I'm not usually this forthcoming. Ever. With anyone," Will replies, trying hard to sound amiable to this task given to him and the now distance between them. It's normal. It's what he's used to, but Will wants to reject what's been customary for him. "And, despite my rather lackluster history with dating, I know I'm not behaving the best. Not following the typical norms or whatever. I don't know why." Will begins chopping again before quoting Hannibal back to himself with, "You bring it out in me."

(It hasn't escaped Will's attention that Hannibal hadn't elected to respond to his _other_ comment. Will has a feeling he'll see the storm soon enough.)

* * *

Hannibal doesn't wish to draw back either, and the realization lingers in the back of his mind as he crosses the few short feet over to where the sink rests. Much as he wishes to keep the feeling of Will's skin against his own, there are rituals to follow, and Hannibal's hands had touched Will's skin. He washes his hands quickly before walking back to the other cutting board. Yet even as he settles in front of it, he feels the extra distance. They're no more than five feet apart, the space comfortable but not crowded, and yet even to Hannibal, the distance feels jarring after having been so close. It's unexpected. It's new. It's _interesting_. 

Selecting his knife, Hannibal turns his attention physically to the meat in front of him while the rest of his attention is still on Will. It doesn't escape his notice that Will follows suit, and the soft sound of him chopping the carrots registers once more. Hannibal spares him a pleased, sidelong look, then glances back down to the cuts of meat before him. He's quick, practiced. Hannibal holds the meat steady and slices it lengthwise in quick, sharp movements, thinning the thick slab of meat into inch-thick strips. His hand braces them as he slices again, and again, until the cuts are uniform. Then he begins to chop properly, using a different motion than the one he'd shown Will, as the meat moves _with_ his blade until it parts seamlessly. The result is uniformly-shaped cubes of meat.

"Do you believe I asked you to have dinner with me because I expected you to follow the 'typical norms', Will?" The knife's blade glints sharply off of the ornate lights above. Hannibal moves it once more, trimming the residual fat from the meat. "Or is it perhaps more likely that I find your behavior refreshing _because_ you don't follow the expected rules. I enjoy the fact that you are so forthcoming. You have a way of keeping my attention, and you rarely fail to surprise me."

Hannibal turns back to look at Will properly, and there's a hint of something else in the smile he offers him. The smile is steady, and at its heart, it is almost _proud_. "So many exist, locked within the rules of society, within their lives. They exist but they don't live. Indulgence is seen as sin and immodesty is seen as selfish, boastful. Society breeds cattle. Mindless, careful, safe, subservient. Good for their leather and their meat and their milk." Hannibal trims a little more fat from the meat, careful not to smile. Cattle indeed... 

"That you are not bound by the same rules as others is refreshing. So please... be forthcoming. Be brash. Challenge your personal demons. Your status quo. Don't lose that fire that makes you _you_ , Will. And," Hannibal goes on, with a slightly easier smile. "Please keep asking questions when you have them. I believe I would like you to know me. Just as I would like to know you."

* * *

Maybe this is a part of their dance. They each point out how they're behaving differently, but neither one really wants to change anything. Will's fairly certain Hannibal doesn't mind. Being forward keeps him interesting and intriguing. Hannibal being tactile... Well, it's fairly obvious that Will has been drinking it up like a parched man. After only being allowed a sip, Will only desires more.

And it has been far too long. It really has. That has to have something to do with how damn desperate he's currently being. Until recently, Will's been in no fucking position to go out and get laid. But now he is. He's recovered. More or less. He could have boycotted Hannibal and sought out a one night stand instead. It would have been easy to scratch the itch, to do what he does every so often, but Hannibal... 

Hannibal holds allure and the knife does its job. Will's mindful of his fingers. He uses the same technique and is careful to match the slices of carrots Hannibal had helped him chop. Of course, this means he's slower, but it helps him to focus. As much as he wants Hannibal (wants to know him, wants to touch him, wants to be known and touched in return), it's still new. Newness brings uncertainty, hesitancy. There's always the chance that he'll do something or say something and the walls will come crashing down. Hannibal could also take a misstep. Hannibal is fallible too.

' _Do you believe I asked you to have dinner with me because I expected you to follow the 'typical norms', Will?'_

It's a rhetorical question, of course. Will resists glancing up. He's focused on finishing the task he's been given. He knows he's already put them behind schedule and while _he_ doesn't mind if dinner doesn't happen, apparently Hannibal does. 

Refreshing. Hannibal compares his behavior to refreshing. Will supposes he can see it. Hannibal is also refreshing to him. A break from--

When Hannibal turns to face him, Will can feel his gaze and does stop to glance up. A strange smile greets him, like Hannibal has some private joke or thought on his mind. It doesn't really matter because Hannibal goes on to talk about society breeding cattle. Surprise finds Will, but he tries his best to not show it and continue listening. He doesn't necessarily disagree with the metaphor. At the end, Hannibal's smile does lighten up, and Will finds himself smiling back in return at the standing invitation for Will to ask questions. Because Hannibal believes he would _like_ Will to know him and vice versa. It's undoubtedly a good feeling.

"There's a lot of drones, sure," Will comments as he looks back down to the carrots and pushes the growing pile of slices to the corner of the cutting board. Smiling so openly is odd and Will is a little shy about it. "I guess in my work I see more outliers-- not that I want to talk about my work," Will rushes on. "You probably hear too much of it to begin with, which I'm grateful for, by the way." Will begins chopping again. "Anyway, I suppose now is as good as time as any to admit that I don't date men. Haven't before now. And you?"

* * *

"Will," Hannibal says softly, and there's a measure of warmth in his voice, bordering on amusement as Will stumbles ahead of himself after mentioning his work, "your job is a large part of who you are. It encompasses a great deal of your life. If ever you wish to talk about work, I won't stop you. As I've told you, I find your insight intriguing, and the details of your job haven't upset me yet. I can assure you that I have heard and seen a great deal in my life. Set aside your worry that you will shock me in some way, or scare me away if you speak at length about your work. It won't happen."

It's something that Hannibal feels the need to state plainly, for this is clearly something that Will has expressed his nerves over before. Hannibal's voice is quiet, calm, and as reassuring as he can make it. He clearly isn't upset over Will briefly mentioning his work, and it obviously doesn't affect him. His attention turns from Will back to the meat he's trimming, and second by second, the cubes of meat take on more uniform shapes and colors. Hannibal sets the fat aside into another pan and turns the heat on low, just enough to bleed the juices from it to add to the flavor of the dish later. 

He's not exactly _surprised_ to know that Will doesn't date men. The admission is enough to draw Hannibal's attention again, but upon reflection, he decides that Will's behavior this evening makes it rather obvious. Hannibal thinks back to the way Will had awkwardly allowed him to take his coat, and to the way that Will had looked so uncertain until he'd had the tumbler in his hand. Hannibal can scent the faint notes of alcohol on the air still and he makes a mental note to offer Will a refill later, though a smaller one. He doesn't actually want this man drunk for the conversations they will undoubtedly have. He's enjoying the sharpness of Will's mind far too much to temper it with alcohol. 

"I was going to tell you that ' _haven't_ would have been a better word, as you are most assuredly on a date with one now. I'm pleased that you've come to that conclusion on your own. I'd hate to not be on the same page," Hannibal says, more amused at his expectation of Will's reaction than the reality of the situation. "As for me, I have dated the occasional man in the past, though infrequently. I don't often date. Not seriously, anyway. I'll find company for dinner by times, or as expectation presents itself. And no, Will. Before you jump to conclusions, that is not what this is." Hannibal's hand stills and he makes a point to look back at Will, making eye contact just so that he can drive this point home. "I find company as I desire it, but after much planning and consideration for my schedule and the schedule of whomever I choose to spend a few hours with. I admit, this is somewhat impulsive for me. You called me this afternoon and there was no real thought to it. That, for me, is a rarity. I simply... wished to see you sooner."

Hannibal tilts his head, almost like he's trying to assess the validity of that statement, and then he nods, more to himself than to Will. 

"As I said, I have been with men in the past. The occasional date, though very infrequently. I suppose we'll just have to explore this territory together." Sending Will a smile that's more in his eyes than on his lips, Hannibal finally turns back to the meat. "As the subject is relatively new for us both, this seems like an appropriate time to ask. Are you comfortable with what I did earlier? Taking your coat for you, bringing you your drinks, guiding your hand. When last I helped you with your coat in my office, you froze like you were uncertain how to respond. I'm afraid it's somewhat ingrained within me. I... enjoy catering to those who deserve it. Will that bother you?"

* * *

Will thinks he could get used to hearing Hannibal saying his name. He likes it, actually. Will wants to hear it more, with different variations, not just gentle fondness. He wants to hear Hannibal say his name with heated intention, or gasped out, repeated like a prayer... Christ. Will feels a stirring of arousal at just _imagining_ how Hannibal might sound in pleasure and with Will's name on his tongue. It shouldn't be so damn hot, but it is. Maybe it's that hint of the storm that calls to him. Will can't help but feel drawn to the idea of the hurricane touching down, the downpour drenching him. He wants to be exposed to Hannibal's elements.

But instead, Hannibal is calm. He assures Will that it's fine to talk about his work. Will _knows_ that it is... He's often surrounded by people who actually _are_ all right with such topics. Jack. Bev. Alana. But he knows them through work. Although, Will supposes he also knows Hannibal through work since it had been at Jack's request that he see someone and Alana had volunteered Hannibal. If it wasn't _for_ his work, they wouldn't be here in Hannibal's kitchen, going through these motions despite the fact that they both _know_ there's something else between them, something that elevates them _away_ from the ordinary. This may be a first date, it may be uncharted land for Will, Hannibal may still be relatively unknown to him, but there's a magnetic pull Will feels. And it _is_ dangerous. A growing obsession. Infatuation. Whatever word he goes with, it's not safe, but in true Will Graham fashion, he's going to fucking press on.

Even though it's not especially good for him to help Jack, he does it. So, he's going to be selfish here. Will thinks he deserves this, and even if he doesn't, he fucking wants Hannibal and it seems mutual. 

Will _tries_ to focus on the rest of the chopping as Hannibal recounts his own dating history. He's not exactly surprised by Hannibal's admission that he doesn't often date nor the fact that men are more rare. He's apparently failing at the task because Hannibal catches his eye to ensure that he knows that this isn't simply a company-for-dinner type of night. Will flushes and glances back down to the cutting board, taking up the task once more. _'_

 _I simply... wished to see you sooner'_ has Will struggling to contain his smile, glad to not be under direct scrutiny. He knows that feeling all too well, a hunger, a craving and he'd acted on them. Here he is. Here they are.

His chopping stops again at the mention of his former awkwardness. He's unsure of the roles in same-sex dating. If there are such things. At least Will thinks that's what it is.

"I like when you touch me," Will answers quickly and it's not exactly the answer to Hannibal's question, but it says enough. "I can't speak about catering... I'm not exactly used to that, but I think I could be. _With you_." 

The last two words are said quieter. Will thinks there's a lot of things that he could do _with_ Hannibal.

* * *

Perhaps Hannibal isn't looking directly at Will when Will tries not to smile, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't see the small, soft expression in his peripheral vision. He says nothing on the matter, though there's a lick of pleasure within at the sight. Perhaps his interest is because Will Graham is so spiritually sensitive, and due to the darkness that Hannibal can sense whenever they're close, but he cannot deny that he's grown to like this man. They've not known each other for long, but perhaps that doesn't matter. He looks at Will's soft satisfaction and then glances back down to the cubed meat, trimming the final edges of fat away to set aside in order to begin cooking it shortly.

Will doesn't take long to answer Hannibal's question. As Hannibal turns back to him and steps over to the sink, he keeps his eyes on Will as he quickly washes his hands again, cleaning them of the lingering traces of the meat he'd been handling. Will doesn't _directly_ answer his question, but he doesn't have to. Hannibal can read the implication loud and clear. Plus that final addition - Will's soft _'with you_ ' - is enough to draw a smile to Hannibal's lips. He thinks back on Matthew's words, on the warning that Will might surprise him, and he finds himself more and more pleased to realize how true the prediction is.

"I suppose we'll see, then. If you have no objections, then I won't temper the urges when they come," Hannibal says, like he'd been about to give Will a choice in the matter. "You strike me as the type of man who has never truly been allowed to luxuriate in much, be it food, warmth, extravagance, or merely the proper company. You deny yourself a great deal, Will. With me, you don't need to." Hannibal turns the water off and gives his hands a small shake before drying them off. 

"If you're able, when you're with me, shelve the thoughts about how you believe you _should_ behave, or what you _should_ want, or need. Allow yourself to be selfish. To indulge. As I told you, I enjoy witnessing strong emotions. Pain, yes, but also pleasure."

Stepping away from the sink, Hannibal walks back over to Will. He takes a single look at the carrots chopped on Will's cutting board and nods, making a pleased sound. Given what Will had just said, he reaches a hand over and briefly touches the backs of his fingers to Will's hand in order to steady it. Then he carefully sweeps the chopped carrots off the board and onto a waiting plate. Hannibal replaces the carrots on the board with fresh dill. 

"I find myself curious just how you will respond to being catered to. To having someone cook for you, or perhaps being invited out, and much more. Who knows? Perhaps one day you might come to expect it." Hannibal spares Will a small look, then nods to the dill. "If you need me to show you an effective method to cut the dill, I will. If not, chop it finely."

* * *

Being catered to... It could possibly lead or veer off into coddling or pandering or spoiling. Before, Will would have strongly disliked the prospect of any of those happening and while he certainly doesn't _want_ to be coddled or pandered to... Spoiled? Isn't that along the same vein as indulgence in a way? Hannibal has the means to do just that. He could easily do it, too. Expensive gifts, vacations... Will's heard of _those_ types of relationships. Normally the very idea would turn his stomach because he'd hate feeling indebted, but he knows Hannibal wouldn't sling guilt toward him. Will wouldn't fucking stand for it. Hannibal doesn't need gifts, doesn't need the things that money could offer. What _Hannibal_ needs is intriguing and refreshing... A change from the cattle. But does _Will_ need to be catered to?

' _I won't temper the urges when they come,'_ Hannibal tells him and Will can't help but think the words temper and urges are strange to use in relation to _catering_. It's probably just work trying to butt in, his mind wanting to connect urges with violence and sinister intent. When Hannibal goes on and mentions the word _luxuriate_ Will can't help but laugh softly under his breath. His idea of luxuriating is drinking whiskey alone, relaxing on his porch with his dogs tromping around happily, but Will knows that's not what Hannibal would have in mind, not in the least bit. 

The suggestion of shelving how he thinks he should behave or want is an inviting concept, but there's still trust that needs to be gained for Will to really let loose. (Showing sexual pleasure is one thing, but contentment? _Happiness_? Will isn't so sure he could manage that yet.) The touch to his hand is light, it proves that Hannibal had been listening, or at least that's what Will is going with. 

"I should be okay, I've cut herbs before and I guess we're on a timeline here," Will replies. While he would like Hannibal to step in close and instruct him once more, Will understands that getting dinner prepared and cooked is important to Hannibal. He can be practical when needed. He takes up the knife and moves the dill closer.

"And about the catering thing... I'm curious, too. It would definitely have me out of my comfort zone, but I've been told that that's not always a bad thing." Will begins to mince the dill finely, enjoying the fresh, familiar scent as it hits his nostrils. He'd rather smell Hannibal. Hopefully there will be time for that later.

* * *

The sight of Will's sidelong glance is nothing short of satisfying. That he can not only infer that Hannibal is particular enough to have a timeline in mind, but strive to complete it _with_ him instead of being reticent about the guidelines set in place is nothing if not pleasing. Hannibal watches as Will reaches down with his free hand to brace the dill. He chops it finely, his hand slightly more practiced than it had been before. Perhaps Will is a little slower than Hannibal would have been, but ultimately the time it takes to prepare a meal like this has already been halved by his assistance. Skilled as Hannibal is, doing two things on opposite sides of the kitchen is still not something he can manage. 

So he leaves it in Will's hands, and as Will chops the dill finely, Hannibal preheats the oven and then turns a burner on the stove. He's quick, listening to Will as he melts butter into a pan on the stove and then turns to mix nutmeg, flour, salt, and pepper together in another bowl he has set out precisely for that purpose. Will's hands are sure, and if Hannibal is timing this properly, they'll finish approximately when they need to in order to set the dish in the oven to cook. 

"No, it's not. Leaving the safety of your comfort zone can be cause for alarm if you're doing it alone, but I have no intention of allowing you to venture into open water without a paddle. You'll not be alone. I'll be there with you. And of course, if it becomes too much, you can always tell me." Hannibal doesn't say what he'd do in response, whether or not he'd stop, but he doesn't have to. Will doesn't need to be coddled, and Hannibal doesn't need to threaten. He could, but what good would that do? He is not nearly so gauche. He has no interest in forcing an unwilling partner. He's coercive; he's not a monster.

When the pan has heated up enough, Hannibal takes his time to begin cooking the meat. The kitchen almost immediately fills with the rich scent as reddened meat begins to heat, the aroma of butter and spices mixing together. Hannibal turns each cube of meat to ensure it's cooked properly. He doesn't mind the chore; his only regret is that his attention must remain focused entirely upon his task. It's a shame, considering how close Will is to his side. "When you're finished with the dill, would you chop the three onions on the table beside you?" Hannibal asks, not sounding distracted.

He doesn't wait for Will's answer. It hadn't been a question. "Thank you. Perhaps, in regards to allowing me to cater to you, we could always start small. Allowing me to get your coat for you, allowing me to ensure you're fed. Were I to send food home with you, would you eat it?" 

Hannibal's tone is light, but there's a casual firmness to it. He doesn't intend to take 'no' for an answer. 

* * *

Yes, Will would rather have Hannibal step back in close and instruct him. It's tempting to feign a lack of skill and seek help - seek touch - but Will doesn't want to be like _that_. Hannibal may want him to be selfish, to indulge, but Will also knows Hannibal wouldn't want him to be pathetic and needy. Will doesn't want that either. He'd never thought of himself as that, but the proximity before had been like a tease, not nearly enough, but it would have to be. For now.

So Will chops the dill, distantly aware of Hannibal tending to the meat. His mind keeps wanting to dredge up the Chesapeake Ripper and his proposed theory of cannibalism of the organs and parts taken. Will believes it's due to Hannibal's comment on people being raised like _cattle_. It makes sense, of course. There's a lot of indoctrination and societal pressure that shapes the masses. It's not that Will thinks that the comment had been cause for any concern... It's just that Will is pretty damn certain that the Ripper would have prepared the _meat_. It wouldn't have been raw, no. It wouldn't be like a lion with a haunch of meat. He hadn't thought about it until now.

Hannibal's voice calls him back. More assurance. Not alone. A paddle. Communication if it's too much. Expected responses, but nevertheless Will appreciates the show of concern. Will just makes an affirmative "mm" sound that he's heard and agrees with Hannibal's reply. The sizzle of meat answers him and Will's stomach gives an impatient growl - apparently he's hungrier than he'd originally thought.

He's directed to the onions next. No _please_. Not asked, although it had been phrased like a question, he knows it is an order. And the following _thanks_ told to him makes Will feel warmer. He can do this. 

Will complies and moves onto the onions. Their harsher smell helps him somewhat push down thoughts of the Ripper and focus on Hannibal's next words about the possibilities of catering to him.

"I don't see why I wouldn't," Will says, but he sounds a little distracted. "I can tell you're a better cook than myself. I don't always have time - uh - to cook for myself so I'd be an idiot to turn down free food." 

It's true.

* * *

This close, glancing at the play of emotions and sudden distraction over Will's face, Hannibal finds himself suddenly tempted to reach out. He's capable of whispering suggestions, of dipping beneath the surface to skim across another's thoughts like a flat stone across the water's surface, but it is significantly easier with an unconscious mind. He can influence dreams, can immerse himself in them to watch, can reach out with the shadow of influence and _twist_ to suit his needs. Theoretically he could do the same thing here, now, could delve beneath Will's surface and _take_ his thoughts. Yet not only does the thought feel invasive, it also feels wrong - even to him. Hannibal is thoughtful as he cooks the meat, browning it delicately on all sides as Will stares down at the dill, lost in his own mind. Hannibal doesn't want to grab Will's thoughts and rip them away. He wants Will to tell him, freely. He wants Will to bend for him, to trust. 

Besides, he muses to himself as the meat sizzles and the scent of it fills the kitchen, Will is not weak of mind. There is a reason that demons often influence the unconscious; a strong-will is often enough to fight back if the subject is aware. So as much as Hannibal wishes to know what the source of Will's suddenly unfocused expression is, he doesn't reach out to take. As he's found over the course of his new life, there are other ways to obtain what he wants.

Hannibal watches as Will moves to the onions to begin chopping them. Hannibal doesn't specify how he wants them chopped. The recipe technically calls for thicker cubes but he finds Will's smaller cuts disperse the flavor much more thoroughly. Yet the shape and cut of the onion under Will's knife is only half of his concern. The rest of it focuses on the brief flicker of satisfaction in Will's eyes before he once again begins to look distracted. When Will answers him, he gaze is somewhat unfocused. He's undoubtedly lost in thought, and Hannibal gives him a minute of polite silence to come back to himself. Only when the time has passed does he speak up, sending Will a curious look over his shoulder.

"And you're hardly an idiot, Will. Though, may I ask... where have you gone?" His voice is mild, without judgement, just carefully curious. "You've retreated somewhere where I can't follow without your help. You seem distracted," he adds, to translate. 

* * *

Will would like to leave work at work, or at home, or in the lecture hall. Anywhere but here on a date. With Hannibal and in Hannibal's kitchen. But can he really say the Ripper case _is_ his work? It's not _his_ case. It's a cold case. Not even an active one. Unsolved. Half a century ago, before his time. He'd given a special lecture on it once and referenced the Chesapeake Ripper in his own classes more than a few times, but there is no good reason for his persistent near-obsession with it. When he needs to share, Jack and Bev humor him, which is always nice, spitballing ideas and theories with them. Alana had given him a pitying look the one time he'd randomly and willingly brought it up. He'd learned his lesson.

Will's aware that he's a little distracted, but he struggles on, making sure to not mess up on the onions or cut his damn fingers. He can focus. He can do this. His Ripper realization is hardly revolutionary by any means. Jack or Beverly may find it interesting, but he doesn't need to talk about now. He can wait. 

But Hannibal inquires and the temptation flares. Will stops and blinks, looking down at the chopped up pieces of onion. He places the knife down and turns to face Hannibal. There's a light of excitement present in his eyes - the look of epiphany.

"I'm apparently shit at turning off my brain at times, but I'm sure that's no surprise," Will begins. His words _sound_ chagrined, but his tone and pacing indicate that he just wants to continue on to the real subject matter. "Anyway, it's about the Chesapeake Ripper - my other not-so-little obsession. I've always believed he was eating the organs or the parts taken, right? That they weren't just trophies kept in some fridge or a closet. But I know they weren't consumed raw. It wasn't like a predator with scraps." Will pauses, taking a quick inhale before carrying on. "He _prepared_ them. His victims were meat. Just another ingredient to use in the kitchen. Hobbs may have been a cannibal, but he _cherished_ his victims. The Ripper didn't. At all. And I suppose it makes sense that it was Hobbs’ case that really ramped up my interest in the Chesapeake Ripper. Both cannibals, but that's all they had in common." 

Will stops and licks his lips, shifting on his feet. He's very aware how easy he finds it to talk about _this_ killer. 

* * *

Hannibal isn't expecting where Will's mind has gone, and it takes very careful control to rein his surprise in as much as he can when Will launches into his explanation. As it stands, he does pause as he works at the meat on the stove, but it's the pause of a man who is slightly surprised by the subject matter, not the pause of the guilty. In truth, that the Chesapeake Ripper is on Will's mind is enough to pique Hannibal's interest. He wonders idly whether Matthew had implanted another seed when he'd been oppressing Will the night before, but... no, Matthew had given him a warning earlier that morning. Or perhaps not a warning, but enough information to work with. He'd told Hannibal that Will had been 'obsessed with them' and now that Hannibal can see the look in Will's eyes, now that he sees the thinly-veiled hunger and excitement in Will's eyes, Hannibal has to admit that _yes_ , Will does seem a little fixated. Yet instead of being alarmed, Hannibal is merely interested.

He does what he can to keep his sudden interest hidden. Instead he half-turns to face Will a little better, listening to him speak while he turns the meat in the pan. The meat sizzles loudly, and the irony of the moment is not lost on him. Hannibal glances down at it, an unreadable flicker of something passing behind his eyes before he presses his lips somewhat thin. Any _normal_ person would likely object to talks of cannibalism while making dinner, but Hannibal doesn't seem too affected. Instead he finishes his work and then reaches over for the mixture of spices he'd prepared before. 

' _He **prepared** them,_ ' Will says, as Hannibal sprinkles the carefully-mixed spices over the cubes of what is in no way venison. ' _Just another ingredient to use in the kitchen_.'

Will's not wrong.

Hannibal is careful not to brown the meat too much as he turns it, stirring it around the bottom of the pot. Hannibal minds it half heartedly, his full attention drifting to Will, and to the excited glint in his eyes. He looks positively _alive_ at his realization, and despite the danger in this, Hannibal finds himself somewhat proud. No, scratch that, he _is_ proud. Will has never shared this insight with him before, and so while he knows it already, he makes a point to look thoughtful, as if the idea had never occurred to him. In truth, he's merely surprised that Will had realized. 

"I... don't know that you've ever shared that particular insight with me, but it wouldn't be impossible. Cannibalism is less known, but it's certainly still practiced, particularly in certain places." Hannibal glances at the cubed meat thoughtfully. "You came to your conclusion when you saw me preparing the meal? I suppose I cannot fault you that, given how the Chesapeake Ripper has been in your mind lately. You mentioned him while speaking of your muralist when we met last."

Hannibal doesn't fail to miss how engaged Will looks suddenly. He hides his pleasure at the sight and - when he deems the meat and spices blended properly - he turns off the burner, adds the meat into a casserole dish, and sets it aside for the rest of the ingredients. 

"So...you believe that the Ripper's trophies weren't trophies, then. They were ingredients. One might assume a butcher, but I admit, I did look into the case after you mentioned it, simply to be prepared. The cuts were surgical, so not a butcher. So... I suppose this begs the question _why_ take the organs to consume?"

* * *

While this isn't really appropriate conversation for most occasions, notorious serial killers who were cannibals are _especially_ not a good topic during meal preparation. But Will knows Hannibal. They're not normal, they're not cattle. Hannibal would rather know than not know. Hannibal wants him open and genuine and Hannibal isn't squeamish about this sort of thing either. He'd been fine discussing the Ripper in his dreams where Will remembers making a comment about his kidney being _tasty_ as to the reason why it had been removed. 

And whenever he's talking about this sort of thing, there's sometimes a sick thrill to it. There's gratification in forming connections and associations, in putting the pieces together and seeing more clearly. (' _See?_ ' A father had asked him and yeah, Will tries. He wants to--)

Hannibal doesn't look perturbed. Initially he appears somewhat surprised, but it's not extreme. As with anything Will has revealed, Hannibal looks to be more thoughtful as he considers the information. While he may not be sharing directly about himself, Will is still sharing a part of himself. He's sharing how his mind works, he's sharing about an interest (obsession). Hannibal can still glean much about him in this exchange.

Hannibal's attention isn't exacting. It's split between him and the meat cooking. Will doesn't feel like a pinned insect... But he kinda of wishes he did. He wants Hannibal's focus. All of it. It's atypical of him to ever want attention on him, but Hannibal Lecter seems to be an almost insistent exception to the rules. Will resists smiling at the revelation that Hannibal looked into the case after he brought it up; just more proof that Hannibal had paid attention and been interested enough in one of _his_ interests.

' _So... I suppose this begs the question **why** take the organs to consume?'_

"Why not?" Will shoots back, an eyebrow lifting slightly. "You likened mindless people to cattle. To the Ripper, his victims were essentially beef products. And I don't think it was about a show of dominance or power. He already knew his worth and skill. The cannibalism could have been easily missed as everyone was so up in arms over the displays of the bodies, no one wanted to delve into missing body parts - not that I blame them." Will pauses for a moment and adjusts his glasses out of habit. 

"Want to know something I've never told Jack about the case? It's a theory that I can't substantiate so I've kept it to myself." 

Will is honestly pleased at having the opportunity to discuss this. (Maybe his abysmal small talk is actually why he doesn't date...)

* * *

In this single instance, Hannibal cannot help but liken Will to a dog excitedly wagging its tail. Hannibal is subtle about his interest, but Will isn't. While Will has been nothing if not polite this evening, it's clear in this moment more than any other that Will Graham's obsession with the Chesapeake Ripper is just that: an obsession. Hannibal hardly _minds_. It affords him the very unique pleasure of watching Will come alive. And, once the meat has been properly taken care of, Hannibal is free to turn back around and look at Will properly. 

He sees a flicker of something in Will's eyes before Will seems to notice that Hannibal is looking at him again. Had Hannibal a best guess, he would have assumed it to be irritation, which is enough to spike Hannibal's interest anew. So, Will doesn't enjoy not being the center of his attention? Hannibal silently files that away, pleased, and when he looks at Will once more, it is with his full attention. He's subtle, more curious than anything, but Hannibal makes a point to look attentive. While he can't say for certain, as he doesn't have his hands on Will's shoulders, nor is he close enough to feel the displacement of air, Will looks like he relaxes slightly once Hannibal's gaze is once again fixed.

Will's rebuttal is almost enough to make him smile, as it is so blunt, and so _right_. _Why not?_ Why not kill? Why not pose the bodies? Why not indulge? Why not remove the organs? Why _not_ consume them? Why not, indeed. 

Hannibal doesn't smile, but he does consider Will's response, looking thoughtful as Will goes on. It's almost unfair that Will mentions Hannibal's comment back. Hannibal _had_ likened people to cattle just this evening, but dear, dark Will seems none the wiser. Hannibal doesn't hold it against him; as far as Will knows, Hannibal had likely been in diapers in the 1960's, if he'd even been born yet. It's not surprising that Will wanders right past the correct answer. But, like a student _almost_ shooting a bullseye, Hannibal is still both amused and proud over how close Will had come in that single moment. A part of him wishes that he had known Will during the Ripper's reign. What fun they could have had.

Especially as Will is quite correct in everything else. Hannibal's surprise is not all faked, and there's a small flicker of something in his chest, a small frisson of something akin to both fear and excitement at the realization that Will knows so much. Is it not the nature of most creatures to want to be known? To find companionship? Not even Matthew had had this level of insight, and the thought of picking at Will's mind, of hearing his theories and delving into that delightful darkness of his is too good to ignore.

He wets his lips with a slow, thoughtful flick of his tongue. "While I feel like I should clarify my earlier statement regarding people and cattle, I... cannot deny your point. Well said. And yes, Will, of course," Hannibal adds, like the concept of _not_ being curious is ludicrous. "I have no official connection to the case, and as I've told you, I value your insight. This is clearly something you're passionate about, and while I can't say that this is... a conversation I'm used to having," Hannibal breaks off to smile, quick, almost teasing, "your excitement is quite contagious. Would you like me to finish here? To perhaps meet you in the parlor? If you'd like another drink, you can tell me your theory once we're settled? We'll have some time to speak before dinner is ready."

* * *

Before the Hobbs case, Will had been interested in the Ripper in an academic sense. It hadn't been obsessive. It hadn't intrigued him. It hadn't kept him up at night or infiltrated his dreams. Then Garret Jacob Hobbs... A sensitive psychopath. A cannibal. A man who cherished, who tucked Elise Nichol's body back into bed, apologetic because she couldn't be honored. The symptoms of his encephalitis had began in earnest as well, creating the perfect environment for his imagination to go wild, for an obsession to take root, his mind latching onto some association between the Minnesota Shrike and the Ripper.

Will thinks his fledgling obsession with Hannibal Lecter is likely healthier - or at least more normal - than the Ripper. Well, he's not letting any of them impede his day-to-day functioning (not that he's a pinnacle of health to begin with), so Will thinks he's in the clear. At any rate, Hannibal hasn't called him out on it. 

His response doesn't seem to offend. It hadn't been Will's intention to have a possible attitude, for apparently he does have one (and Jack had been less than pleased when it had made an appearance). Instead, Hannibal merely looks engaged and attentive. Which Will likes. Probably too much. He's locked into this course. He's opened his mouth - both about this subject matter and his attraction toward Hannibal and Will isn't going to do any renouncing. He wants to discuss this, to have Hannibal interested in his insight and possibly give his own too. The word _validation_ streaks through his head and Will can't say that that's _not_ a part of the appeal of this all.

He's standing in Hannibal's kitchen, arms by his side, the last onion waiting to be chopped still and instead he's on his own tangent and attempting to pull Hannibal in as well. Will doesn't feel sheepish, but he thinks he _should_ feel such a way. But, as he's been shown constantly throughout this evening, Hannibal obliges him and doesn't cast him a single judgmental look. Instead, Hannibal's tongue slides out and he licks his lips thoughtfully. (And Will wants to know how that tongue feels sliding against his skin...)

Supposedly his excitement is contagious. Will doesn't know how he feels about that being pointed out to him. It does get him no longer thinking about Hannibal's tongue as he likes the prospect of another drink and just talking to Hannibal. Talking with no distraction...

"Yeah, that'd be nice," Will answers, his hands going to the apron to undo it and place it on the back of a nearby bar stool. "And I don't think your earlier comment was problematic, Hannibal. If that was at all on your mind." That stated, Will turns to exit the kitchen. "I'll leave you to it, then." While Will _would_ like to watch, he knows he'd only serve to distract Hannibal and not enjoy his divided attention.

So, Will decides to behave and heads to the parlor, waiting for the promised drink and conversation. Alone now, he feels a little antsy as he looks around the room, taking in the furnishings and gravitating to the bookshelf to peruse Hannibal's titles.

* * *

Hannibal knows what Will's answer is going to be before he says it. The look of unbridled interest in Will's eyes is obvious and Hannibal can see the flickers of want hidden there. Will's glance towards the food tells Hannibal all that he needs to know. That, coupled with the way Will's shoulders seem to relax at the idea of speaking with each other is enough for Hannibal to silently file away the fact that Will likes his attention. He doesn't seem to enjoy sharing it, which is as endearing as it is amusing. Hannibal could deny him; he could tell Will to wait for him properly until he's ready (and one day he will, as now that he knows Will is slightly bothered by it, it could become a way to push him without going too far) but he doesn't. 

Instead, Hannibal allows him to undo the apron and - with a polite smile in response - Hannibal steps up and reaches out for the knife that Will had been using before. He doesn't turn away immediately, instead listening to Will's answer. To his surprise, part of Will's answer is honest _reassurance_ and Hannibal stills, caught somewhat off guard by it. He's quiet for a moment and then he ducks his head slightly, thankfully. 

"I appreciate the kindness, Will. And I'll join you in a few minutes. Please, make yourself comfortable."

With that, Will turns to leave and Hannibal watches him go as far as the doorway to the kitchen before Hannibal turns back to the onion. He's quick as he slices it lengthwise, chopping it into cubes as small as Will had been cutting before. Hannibal wastes no time.. He mixes all of the ingredients together, his attention half-present, but he doesn't let his lack of attention spoil the dish. Hannibal seasons it, pours enough broth over it to flavor, and then puts the dish in the oven. The last thing he does is set a timer before he undoes his apron, washes his hands, and finally rights his tie, tucking it into his vest.

He rolls his sleeves back down as he steps out of the kitchen, buttoning the cuffs. By the time Hannibal joins Will in the parlor, he's got Will's glass in his hand and his suit jacket back on, buttoned at the waist. 

Hannibal finds Will exactly where he'd said he'd be, and he offers Will a small smile as he walks over to the liquor shelf in the corner. As Will peruses the bookshelf, Hannibal reaches out for the scotch from before and pours Will a few fingers of it. Then he pours himself a red wine with an impressive, fruity bouquet. With both glasses in hand, Hannibal walks over to the couch in the room and sets both drinks down on the coffee table in front of him. Then he looks over to where Will is standing and Hannibal beckons him over with a wave of his hand, then pats the seat beside him.

"Now that dinner is settled, would you care to join me? We have a little over an hour until it's done, and I'm quite interested to hear this theory of yours, substantiated or not."

* * *

Will can hear the sounds of Hannibal finishing up the prep. He doesn't feel bad that he wasn't more help (he was _some_ at least). He would have liked to watch Hannibal more. Hannibal in his element. The controlled motions, effortlessly orchestrating and bringing all the ingredients together... His apparent desire to spew his thoughts about the Ripper have now got in the way, but Will is pleased to have someone else to air this out to. 

In the bookshelf, there's a wide variety of medical and anatomy texts, novels, anthologies, poetry. Some books are Italian and Japanese. Hannibal is cultured and Will has no doubt that the man likely speaks and understands more than English, Japanese _and_ Italian. Will understands a little French from growing up in Louisiana, but that's about it. The divide between them _should_ bother him. It's vast, many differences exist between them, but isn't _different_ interesting? 

The smell of onions clings to him. Will should have washed his hands but he'd been in a bit of a rush to leave. He'd thought the time alone would help him gather his thoughts, but it's not really happening. When he hears footsteps approaching, Will turns around. Hannibal looks nearly pristine. (Will still thinks cooking in a suit is still ridiculous.) The mere sight of Hannibal getting him more alcohol eases his nerves.

Hannibal sits down on a rather long couch, and then pats beside him as if Will is a dog to be beckoned over. Will doesn't immediately make his way over. He's both pleased that Hannibal wants him to sit that close and incredulous that the older man would _pat_ the seat. It's not worth bringing up, though. Will does acquiesce and meanders over, sitting down next to Hannibal and reaching for the tumbler of scotch to take a sip. 

"Thanks for humoring me by the way," Will begins. This close, they're almost touching, but Will doesn't let that fact distract him. "Anyway it's more a feeling than any semblance of a theory, but looking over the spread of victims over the ten years, I couldn't help but notice some variations. Some crimes _felt_ different; the intent was different, as if it wasn't a single unified vision."

* * *

Hannibal reaches over for the wine glass he'd set down on the coffee table, the stem delicate between his fingers. The finer notes of blackberries linger on the air, mixing with the woodier scent of the scotch, and Hannibal basks in the simple decadence of a good drink with interesting company. He glances to the chair in the room, recalling how it had been occupied not even a day before. A hint of a smile touches his lips at the thought of what Will might say if he'd known his Chesapeake Ripper - both parts of him - had been in this room not 24 hours ago. The thought is amusing enough, but Hannibal's attention doesn't linger. Instead he looks up as Will walks over.

He doesn't miss the brief expression of incredulity but Hannibal doesn't regret patting the seat. Had he not, Will might have incorrectly inferred that Hannibal wanted him to sit on the other end of the couch. Given how Will had responded in the kitchen, how he'd seemed almost desperate to gravitate into Hannibal's orbit, that is not what Hannibal wants. While proximity tends to be something Hannibal avoids - for distance offers a pleasant disconnect from those around him - it is not something that he intends to avoid with Will. So he shifts his hand away and Will sits beside him, retrieving his glass and leaning back against the seat. The urge to move his arm around Will's shoulders _does_ rear its head, but Hannibal decides to wait on it. As always, he's curious how Will is going to respond, and his curiosity regarding Will's insight into the Chesapeake Ripper is greater than his desire to wind the two of them closer.

Hannibal looks at Will, lifting the wine glass to his lips to take a sip after breathing in the bouquet of the wine. Yet not even his careful, measured movements can curb his interest. He watches Will closely, and when Will finally speaks, Hannibal finds himself honestly _impressed_. He's careful not to let it show.

Instead he frowns, thoughtful. He _knows_ that Will is correct, as he remembers arguing with Matthew on more than one occasion. While Matthew had followed his instruction almost to the letter more often than not, there had been times where he had been brash, stubborn. His style had shifted, though not enough for the police at the time to notice. The fact that - over forty years later - Will Graham has seen what the police had failed to see for decades is _fascinating_. Hannibal is quiet. Then he leans over and sets the wine aside. He stands up, excusing himself with a soft, "one moment," and he exits the room. 

While _he_ has no need of it, the man he is pretending to be does. Hannibal retrieves his tablet from his office, and when he carries it back to the parlor, he still looks curious. He's quick to pull up reports from the Chesapeake Ripper case, complete with a few online leaked photos from the scenes. When he joins Will again, he sits down and glances down at the photos before him, his expression pinched a little by the 'brutality' of them. Ultimately he looks curious, as if he's examining them with a slightly different light. And, after a moment, Hannibal begins to nod, slow, almost thoughtful.

He tilts the screen towards Will, pointing down to the photo. A man in a church, his severed tongue serving to keep his place in a Bible. 

"I'm hardly humoring you, Will. As I said, I enjoy your insight. Again, I've not studied this case at length, but I can at least comment from a medical background. The angle of cuts and the style is similar. A near-surgical cut, also seen in Olmstead." Hannibal switches pictures, to indicate the victim posed as the Wound Man. Then, after a second, he switches to a third - a young woman left impaled in the middle of a field. That's when his lips pull down into a deeper frown. "And... I see remnants of the same here, but you're right. There _is_ a different feel to this one."

Hannibal knows. He'd been furious at the time. A petulant act by a petulant boy, pushing back against his mentor. Hannibal is careful to keep his emotions from infecting his commentary. 

"From a psychological standpoint, the first two are almost... subtly self-assured. Your Ripper knew what he was doing and knew how he wished to accomplish it. The third feels almost mocking. Petulant, perhaps. I'd not noticed that until now, as from a medical standpoint, the cuts are still the same. Perhaps he had a personality disorder beyond the antisocial personality disorders?"

* * *

A killing partnership isn't unheard of. Each has their own roles to play, usually one as the bait and the other as the aggressor. Usually great degrees of co-dependency and dysfunction between the two exist. But two killers working in tandem, both with surgical skills, both with the desire to flaunt their work, both possessing a blatant disregard for human life, but one a little more _mature_ than the other? It sounded a little farfetched to Will. Psychopaths wouldn't want to share the credit, wouldn't want to compromise or take turns... In any of the displays, there had been nothing to suggest it would have taken _two_ people to construct them either. Did they take turns then? Did they feed off each other? Did one simply observe the other? There's still many unknowns.

After he's delivered his not-exactly-a-theory, Will watches Hannibal closely. He sees interest, he sees the wheels turning, so to speak. A moment later Hannibal is excusing himself and Will feels disgruntled. Had he said something wrong? Will takes another drink, using every ounce of his willpower to simply _not_ down the entire glass. He tells himself that there's a few good reasons why Hannibal could have needed to leave. Perhaps he forgot something in the kitchen or needed to use the bathroom--

Hannibal returns. With a tablet. It makes sense. Hannibal is not as familiar with the case and there are leaked photos, damn Wikipedia articles on it and everything. Fans. Lounds liked to dredge up old killers and have her readers vote on their "favorites" or who they believed would have won in a fight. Tasteless. Will takes another sip quickly, far too relieved that Hannibal is back and settled next to him. Will looks over to the tablet in Hannibal's lap, their shoulders touching as he does so. 

Gruesome images await him. Nothing new. He understands Hannibal is looking for subtle variations as he swipes through some of the more infamous shots. Will's seen worse - has access to worse - but still they give him a chill, especially Olmstead. His dream wants to rise to the surface of his mind, for Will to focus on him being impaled with tool after tool--

That is, until Cassie Boyle's image appears. Impaled on a stag's antlers in the middle of a Minnesota field. 

"I'm not really interested in trying to seek understanding through the lens of a diagnosis - no offense to your profession, of course," Will comments, his voice a soft tease that feels out of place in this moment. He clears his throat and continues. "But you're right about Cassie Boyle - that was her name. Petulant is a good word for it. There's just something artless about the "art."" Will sucks his bottom lip as he breathes in. 

"For someone so obviously intelligent and controlled, I can't see why the Ripper would deviate. There's no reason for it. He wouldn't have had a simple mood swing." 

* * *

Hannibal has seen Freddie Lounds' articles. In truth, as tasteless a woman as she is, he cannot help a small curl of amused respect for her tenacity. As underhanded as she is, she _has_ been helpful in securing a soul here and there, and she's provided countless hours of entertainment if nothing else. Her fascination and theories about the Chesapeake Ripper have caught his eye on more than one occasion. He's no stranger to her writing, though he makes a point to avoid it now. The last thing he needs is for Will to notice how many hyperlinks have turned purple from their original blue. He doesn't need Will seeing that he's read the Ripper articles, but he _really_ doesn't need Will to see that Hannibal had read most everything that Ms. Lounds had posted about Will.

So Hannibal sticks to safer sources, from Wikipedia to news sites. Some of the articles span back a long way, and he fondly remembers reading the headlines back in the 1960's. He's careful not to allow any of his fond amusement to show. Instead he scans the articles and glimpses the pictures, though his attention is half-on the articles, and half-on Will. Will leans in closer to him, and Hannibal feels the press of Will's weight against his side, the hint of warmth from their bodies pressed close. Silently, he settles the tablet between them, allowing Will easier access to it so that they can both see.

Hannibal eventually settles on a page with a dark background. The pictures stand out in starker contrast, but more than that, he can see Will's expression reflected back at him. As Hannibal slides from one photo to the next and he sees the effect that seeing Olmstead has on Will, he cannot help his fascination. Will says nothing, but Hannibal wishes that he could reach out and sink his claws into Will's mind. Instead, though the urge doesn't die, Hannibal simply dips his shoulder so that Will settles in closer. It's a comforting warmth. 

"Of course, no offense taken. I'm certain you've had your fill of professionals attempting to explain away many a case before you. You're not interested in a psychiatric diagnosis. Not as per the DSM-5, anyway," Hannibal says quietly, though he does slide a small glance in Will's direction, acknowledging his teasing, before he looks back down at his tablet.

He lingers on the image of Cassie Boyle impaled in the middle of the field, her hair sprawling to the straw-coated ground, the antlers reaching through her. He'd been furious at the time, but now, looking at it, despite the savagery, there _is_ a sort of artistic side to it. Matthew's own design, perhaps. If Hannibal sees him again, he'll have to remember to mention it. 

"So... perhaps I may offer another alternative, off the record. Instead of attempting to diagnose his madness, perhaps the answer is much simpler. When facing a sudden change in behavior, we often look for a triggering event. Now... Cassie Boyle, she was _after_ the other two, correct?" Hannibal quickly draws up the timeline, as if to check, and then nods. Yet when he goes back, he hesitates only for a moment and then flicks to the next page, where a beautiful image of a deathly Primavera staged with corpses all but shines back at them. 

"But she was _before_ this couple. Now... in the face of a triggering event, a style tends to permanently shift. Artists' styles change based on the event, and they rarely revert back to the original. So to go from such brutality back to what could arguably be called artistry is atypical. So... perhaps instead of a mood swing, it was simple."

Hannibal leans back and looks back down at Will, his head tilting. "Perhaps Cassie Boyle was for _someone else_. She's the outlier in the pattern." 

Hannibal glances at Will, curious. Cassie Boyle _had_ been the outlier, yes, but she hadn't been for someone else. She'd been the one _not_ for him. 

* * *

This isn't something Will would have ever thought he'd be doing. On Hannibal Lecter's couch, drinking scotch, pressed against him and gazing down at Ripper victims on a tablet? Not only that, he's _not_ actually being humored either. Hannibal seems more than willing to indulge him in this and discuss his ideas. Hannibal is also insightful, being able to keep up and offer his own viewpoints.

It _is_ a validation of sorts. It feels good. It's a treat, too. Will doesn't want to smile for it would be inappropriate to do so, but the desire is there. Sure, it's messed up, but he's grown into this darkness day by day. He'd shot Hobbs and despite the difficulty of helping Jack, he'd continued looking. He hadn't been able to stop, even after Alana's gentle insistence. Alone, he'd worked out that killing was ugly but came with a sense of _power_. 

Will listens to Hannibal's proposed alternative, his eyes focused on what Hannibal deigns to show him on the tablet's screen. The human mind is extraordinary. Will can't help but think of everything _he's_ personally seen - troves of bodies giving birth to mushrooms, humans changed into angels, a musician becoming his own instrument, a corpse totem pole, the Eye... Will can appreciate the grotesque artistry to it all. The Ripper had also been an artist. 

_'Perhaps Cassie Boyle was for **someone** **else**. She's the outlier in the pattern.'_

Will takes a moment before he responds. "I never got the impression that the Ripper killed _for_ anyone, but it could very well be something like that. Makes more sense than the idea of two killers. A triggering event to upset the balance..." 

He doesn't sound convinced; Will doesn't have to be. He can't necessarily explain the nagging feeling that there's something _more_ , something _else_ to it. 

"What truly bothers me is that he stopped. Why stop? He enjoyed it. He was extremely good at it."

* * *

"This is off the record," Hannibal says as he reaches for his glass of wine. A quick sip places a natural pause in the conversation before he looks back down at the tablet between them, feeling Will's warmth pressed up against his shoulder. 

"Every suggestion I offer you will only be a theory. Were Jack Crawford to open the case and formally request my assistance, that would be another matter altogether. Right now all you and I are doing is approximating a possible sequence of events. I understand the fascination with the sick. It would be hypocritical of me to claim otherwise." 

Hannibal offers Will the smallest of smiles, more for camaraderie's sake than anything else. "That said, I would ask that you take any of my suggestions with a grain of salt. I can only explain away possible theories. I cannot give you answers, much as I would like to."

Hannibal turns his attention onto the tablet once more, his piece said. He can sense a churning curiosity in Will's body beside him and the urge to reach out, to influence this man despite being awake is rather strong. He doesn't. Instead Hannibal flicks from one picture to the next, then back again, examining the artful creations of one of his favorite students. He's careful not to look proud, affixing an expression of professional interest onto his face instead. It's not a lie; he _is_ professionally interested ... just not in the Ripper's victims. He already knows them. 

"The wound patterns are so similar that I'd all but ruled out the idea of two killers. Even in Ms. Boyle's case, her death is more a slaughter, but she has the same wound patterns. So likely one killer. Either killing for someone, or for some other reason."

Hannibal says nothing about a mentor-student relationship. He doesn't have to. He will gently warn Will of the walls of the maze in the dark, but he will not guide him through it. Like he had with Matthew, Hannibal enjoys giving another the _means_ to complete a task. He won't do it for them, just as he won't do this for Will. Instead, when Will naturally switches the topic away, Hannibal hums a soft, thoughtful sound under his breath. He breaks only to take another sip of his wine, enjoying the subtle undertones that leave him feeling more relaxed after he's swallowed. He feels it sets the mood.

"And as for why he stopped... you're right in your confusion. My only suggestion would be that something happened. If there _were_ two of them - or one killing for another - then a falling out wouldn't have stopped the killing. It would have changed it. Perhaps the Chesapeake Ripper died, as I believe you're correct. He likely thought himself an artist. Changing the world in his own way. Men like that don't _stop_. They either change - escalate - or they die."

* * *

Will lifts his tumbler to his lips and finishes his scotch. He's beginning to feel slightly more relaxed from the alcohol, limbs loose and warm, but Hannibal has also been saying all the right things - dancing around Will and not tripping. And it's fucking nice to have someone perceptive enough to deal with him. Will feels like he's scored the jackpot and he hadn't even been trying. It's a ludicrous feeling, really. How did he manage to get so lucky? Maybe this is karma finally giving him something nice in return. (Somehow he doesn't think so.)

There is a budding camaraderie occuring. It's honestly nice to be able to discuss and hear Hannibal's input. Hannibal has a detachment from the case that Will knows he's sorely lacking. It's good to be challenged. It's good to consider alternatives and any and all possibilities. 

This close, Will can't help but his let his eyes occasionally flick upward and take in Hannibal's expression. It's attentive. Engaged. Curious. Will likes the expression, even though it's not exactly _for_ or _about_ him. It still involves him. They're involving each other in this and Will is appreciative of the company. It doesn't feel like Jack humoring him or Bev just being a sounding board. And while Hannibal doubts the idea of two killers, Will's not bothered by it. Will leans forward to place his now empty glass on the coffee table. He settles back against Hannibal, able to lean back easier without the glass in his hand. Hannibal accepts the topic change, even paying homage to Will's idea of two killers. 

"It's an ambitious desire, to change the world, to leave your mark. So many come and go, you blink and you wouldn't even know they existed," Will murmurs. He then looks at Hannibal's face, his own expression more serious, the Ripper floating away from his mind like smoke. 

"I want to change you," Will asserts, his voice low and rough. "To leave my mark on you." 

It's horrible to say, but far more horrible to feel and _want_. It's sentiment that isn't supposed to be voiced. Will knows that much. It's heated sighs and dark things that boil inside of him when he's alone and staring up at the ceiling after a vivid dream... His hand takes the tablet from Hannibal and place it on the table. His hands take Hannibal's wrists and Will's nails dig into the soft flesh. 

"Still want me?" Will asks, looking up through his eye lashes, his eyes bright.

* * *

This is not how Hannibal had expected the evening to go, and yet he is far from disappointed. To have Will in his space, to feel the soft buzzing of spiritual power along his skin, and to have Will's brilliant mind reaching and sharing is nothing short of intoxicating. This goes beyond the hints of darkness that Hannibal has seen in this man and changes into something else, something more. Hannibal is a prideful man. More than that, he often indulges in the sin of self-congratulation. Hearing Will's input - seeing the rabid fascination in his eyes whenever he mentions the Chesapeake Ripper - is enough to spark both Hannibal's interest and satisfaction. 

It's been some time since the Chesapeake Ripper's rein. Hannibal can remember the fear, the panic, and - more importantly - the uncomfortable awe. He can remember the papers detailing heinous crimes while struggling not to speak about the artistry. Every now and then a journalist - Ms. Lounds, for instance - will delve back into the files and create a panic once more about unsolved cases. The Chesapeake Ripper is a legend in the area, unsolved, but stopped. Hannibal enjoys the resurgences whenever they happen, but he has never faced one with Will Graham close to him. Hannibal is beginning to think that he hardly _needs_ the publicity or the panic. Not when he has Will Graham's sharp, laser-like focus and intuition. There's a temptation there to feed Will more information, to lead him down the correct path with little more than breadcrumbs, but Hannibal doesn't wish to exhaust all of his ideas at once. Instead he's willing to let it slide, to give Will time.

He's fixated on the old crimes, on the article in front of him. He's so fixated, in fact, that he doesn't notice it when Will's expression suddenly changes. He listens, but apart from Will's somber tone, he notices nothing. That is... Hannibal is unaware of it until Will speaks to _him_. 

Those first words - _I want to change you_ \- are like smoke, dark and sultry and curling. Hannibal pauses, then he darts a glance back at Will. He notes the absence of Will's tumbler first, then Will's proximity - even closer than before - and Hannibal's interest sharpens. Much as he enjoys reliving old days, he is far more interested in what this man intends now. His words don't disappoint. Hannibal wets his lips.

"What is life if not change?" Hannibal says quietly, his question rhetorical and his voice quiet as he turns enough to look Will in the eye. This broken creature with his shattered edges, finally collecting them again, gathering them with their points facing outwards. His tablet is taken away (and he'll judge that bold act later) but for now, he can feel Will's claws digging in, both physically and emotionally. The physical clutch of his nails burns, but it's what this sudden act of aggression _means_ that catches Hannibal's attention. 

"Transient and yet kinetic, tangible change. The nature of human interaction is change. It is impossible to interact without engaging in some form of it. A memory formed, an opinion shifted, an accident, violence, affection, sadness... all change. All human."

Hannibal studies the wild darkness in Will's blue eyes, the flicker of something within that calls to the creature lurking beneath. A frisson of excitement flickers across his skin, though it's only shown in the small hitch to Hannibal's breathing. Otherwise he looks cautious but interested. Hannibal is quiet for a moment. Then he curls his hands, pressing his wrists up into the cut of Will's nails, chasing that small bite of pain. 

"Yes, Will. I still want you. That has not been a question tonight. You want to change me. To leave your mark... I would invite you to. It is natural for two people to come together and change one another. Or, perhaps," he goes on, and this time his voice is a little lower, "you mean something deeper. Less a mark, more a brand. In which case... again, I would encourage you to. The darkness you fear within yourself doesn't unnerve me, Will."

* * *

This feels far more audacious compared to when he'd admitted the existence of his hard-on over the damn phone. Arousal is basic. It's nothing special. For guys, popping a boner hardly _means_ anything. Sometimes gaining an erection isn't even a conscious thing. But this is meaningful. This is significant. This isn't light. It's not surface level. It's not mild mannered nor even appropriate. It's as far from small talk as one can get.

But Hannibal had instructed Will to shelve what he thought he _should_ do. Hannibal hasn't been put-off by him in the least, so it's only encouraged Will to go further, to open his mouth and not quite whisper a selfish desire. (It grows, it grows.) Hannibal listening to him, Hannibal inviting him to share about the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal offering him his own insights? It's fucking gratifying. Emboldening. It's won Will over. Completely. (And maybe it's fucked up that that's what it took, but Will isn't going to worry about it right now.)

Hannibal is right. Life is all about change. He looks into Hannibal's eyes. They're a warm brown, rich like soil, but Will knows it could be quicksand lurking underneath. (He'll sink willingly. No question about it.) They're two humans interacting, Will hoping to incite, Hannibal engaged and encouraging him to do so. Will breathes quietly. The moment is intense and heavy. It's not his intention to draw blood, but Will has no problem with it occurring. Hannibal seems to have no problem with his nails digging in either. (Maybe if he claws away the skin he can find the storm.) Once again, Hannibal is given the chance to rebuke him and once again, Hannibal chooses not to. Hannibal still wants him. Contentment and nerves flip flop in Will's belly. He's honestly not used to such a combination of feeling. 

' _The darkness you fear within yourself doesn't unnerve me, Will.'_

Will's grip tightens as his nails press into flesh, his eyes widening at the statement. When did his pulse increase? When did a low thrum of arousal creep up? A few seconds pass, he exhales slowly and then Will lets his fingertips run over the shallow indents, more curious than soothing. 

"You're going to make a hedonist out of me," Will says. It's supposed to be in jest, and yet it rings true. "And I don't think you'd mind one bit." 

Will licks his lips, his fingers now tracing over the backs of Hannibal's hands, across his knuckles, wanting to learn and explore skin he's never touched before. He wants to touch _more_ but the cuffs on Hannibal's shirt are buttoned. There's entirely too many layers of clothing wrapped around Hannibal, actually. Frustration mounts. Will decides to be bold, one hand coming to rest on the top of Hannibal's closest thigh and stroking obviously toward his crotch. 

* * *

The bite of Will's nails against Hannibal's wrists reminds him of milk teeth. There is pain from the cut of Will's nails but Hannibal only distantly observes it, fascinated rather than irritated. When weaning, certain small mammals are without teeth, blindly crawling, their eyes and ears shut. The emergence of milk teeth is a transitory stage. The animal begins to suckle less and instead is faced with the reality of sinking its teeth into real food for the first time. 

As Hannibal feels the bite of Will's nails, he can't help but liken this moment to a different stage of development. It's evolution. It's change. It's Will becoming more in this isolated way. His milk teeth are coming in, sharp little fangs that bite, not the flat molars of the herbivore, but the sharp, serrated teeth of a carnivore. Hannibal can feel it in every little press of Will's nails against the soft skin of his wrist. He watches, quiet, silently fascinated. Perhaps Will isn't fully aware of the statement he's making, but given that the wrist, the throat, and the inner thigh are the most dangerous places for injury on the human body, given the abundance of crucial arteries interspersed throughout, he can't help but wonder if this spot hadn't been Will's intention. 

So he sits there, feels Will's claws dig in, and Hannibal watches as the blue of Will's irises shrink to accommodate the sudden dilation of his pupils. Hannibal breathes in slowly and catches the softest notes of arousal on Will's skin, which coincide delicately with his own. He's silent and still - a man with a wild animal - and as Will's nails draw back and his fingers begin to slide slowly over Hannibal's hands, Hannibal merely allows him to. Each of Will's actions is very telling and Hannibal burns to comment, but as Will's fingers trace his wrists, chase his own marks left, Hannibal resists the urge. He'll speak when he's able, when the sound of his voice won't spoil this growing mood.

When Will speaks, his voice is quiet, almost awed. Hannibal offers up both of his hands, lifting them as Will traces the backs of his hands, curling them into small fists as Will explores his knuckles. Hannibal watches curiously until the moment something flickers behind Will's eyes. He sees a frisson of something else, something almost frustrated, and then suddenly one of Will's hands drops to Hannibal's thigh. The touch is sudden and far bolder than Hannibal had expected. He's quietly delighted over the realization. Though he also thinks back to his musing over the three vital areas. Will's gone for his wrists, for his inner thigh... his throat will be the last stop.

Hannibal doesn't stop Will's hand. He lets it slide higher, lets Will feel the way his slacks fit him a little tighter, lets Will know that he is not the only one affected. Though before Will's hand is able to touch him directly, Hannibal reaches down and sets one of his hands over Will's, halting the progression. 

"Society condemns hedonism when it shouldn't. You're right; I'd not mind if I made you hedonistic. I'd consider it an accomplishment to make you realize that you are allowed to want. That you are allowed to crave. That the dark corners of your mind needn't stay eternally dark."

Hannibal gathers Will's hand up, then, sliding his free one under it. His fingers move to the flutter of Will's pulse, his fingertips stroking slow patterns over the sensitive palm of Will's hand. He moves slowly, almost sensually. 

"There are many goals I have for you. There are many emotions I wish you to recognize. Many sensations I wish you to feel. Many experiences I wish you to have. Too many for one single night..."

Trailing off, Hannibal's fingers stroke slow over Will's skin, almost hypnotic. Then, making a point to meet Will's eyes, Hannibal slides his fingers to Will's wrists, pressing over his pulse directly. 

"I suppose this is my unsubtle attempt to ask you if perhaps you would see me again. Like this. Not in a professional capacity. I'm aware it's customary to finish a first date _before_ asking for a second, but..." Hannibal allows himself a flicker of a smile, "you are quite an engaging man, Will."

* * *

There's a vest. And a tie. And a dress shirt. Stiff collar. Slacks. Buttons and seams. Tailored. The fit perfect. Hannibal is wrapped up, a gift that Will wants to rip into. Hannibal is _saying_ yes to him, saying all the goddamn right things, the praise and validation, the attention. He wants to know Hannibal more intimately, so why not go for his dick? Why not indulge? Will doesn't especially _enjoy_ giving blowjobs, but he thinks he would enjoy giving Hannibal one. He wants to hear Hannibal murmur his name. Easiest way to do that is get Hannibal's dick in his mouth. He'll suck and lick and slurp and make a mess. He wants Hannibal to watch him to do it too.

Because arousal is simple, right? It makes sense. It's an outlet. Will doesn't know what else to do in this moment. He's feeling things he's never felt before. Will isn't good at merely existing in limbo, in this new strangeness, whatever they're carving out for each other. Doing something, taking action, it's what he needs to do.

He knows the feel of Hannibal's hands - softer than his own - but not like a woman's. Hannibal's thigh is firm under his palm. Toned, but not overly so. Before his hand can come to Hannibal's crotch, Hannibal's own hand comes to rest and stop the action. Will is momentarily confused, his lips tugging down in a displeased frown. Hannibal's words are at odds with his actions. Hannibal is still telling him _yes_ , but _stopping_ him in this pursuit. Isn't _this_ a craving? 

His hand is pulled away. Fingertips stroking along his palm. It feels like a sensual tease. Will hadn't even known his damn palm was sensitive, but apparently it is. He can't remember all the erogenous zones at the moment, but he knows Hannibal likely does. Hannibal speaks of goals that he has for him. Emotions Hannibal wishes for him to recognize. Sensations to feel. Experiences to have. It's flattering in a sense, but Will's eyes narrow because isn't he being denied all of that right now?

Fingers glide to his inner wrist, situating over his quick pulse. Will is still as Hannibal out and states that he wants a second date. Will had assumed that was already in the cards for them after their earlier conversation so it doesn't come as a surprise (although it is nice to hear).

"I think this is also your subtle attempt to dissuade where my hand was going," Will replies plainly, eyes glinting. He's not necessarily upset, just observant. Perhaps Hannibal is finicky about when and where he's being touched. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe he's damn set on a dinner date with no other complications. 

"Would you prefer that I not _engage_ you in such a way?" Will challenges and he pulls his hand away, coming to rub at his face, a half-amused smile on his lips. "I got the impression you liked _hearing_ me earlier. Maybe you'd rather watch? Or maybe you'd rather just listen?" 

* * *

Hannibal knows what he's doing. He knows how to play this game. He's been playing it for decades and much longer. Had he pushed back in the sixties, he could have had Matthew in his bed properly, but Hannibal is not a rapist, nor is he a monster. He's not scum. Sweet as he knows Matthew would have been - if just for those moments of passion - Hannibal had found greater enjoyment in his mind, in his recklessness, in his enthusiasm. Sex, he'd reasoned, would have tainted it, and he'd been pleased to play a less forceful role with Matthew, until he'd realized who Hannibal really was. 

Most demons are greedy, selfish monsters, gluttons for violence and pain, death and sex. They think nothing of rape and murder, and they typically get taken down for it. They lack forethought. Hannibal does not. He has his control. He has a set way he likes to do things. But more than that, he finds other people easier to read. Matthew had needed to be reigned in but encouraged. He'd needed a guide, a mentor, someone to listen to him. In many ways, he and Will are similar, but Will is proving to be more complex. He needs validation in the same way Matthew had, but instead of being reigned in, he needs true encouragement. He needs a gentler, subtler guiding hand. He needs to be shown a world of possibilities and guided towards them, encouraged that he's allowed to want, to choose, to pick. Hannibal is confident in his assessment for all that Will Graham keeps surprising him. Milk teeth or not, carnivore or not, he needs a gentle hand, needs to shed the years of control he's built up around himself.

So when Will touches him, Hannibal knows what he's doing. He distracts Will, denying him something he wants simply to see what Will is going to do. Yet Hannibal's denial is not a firm, hissed, 'no'. Instead it's a gentle, sensual, warm touch, distracting. It's not a punishment. It's a redirection. Hannibal doesn't expect Will to notice, expects him to be so caught up in the touch that he lets it go.

When Will speaks, it takes almost all of Hannibal's control to keep his surprise at bay. Hannibal goes still, his hands still clasped over Will's. Will doesn't sound upset, only observant, and as Hannibal glances to Will's hand, he cannot deny that Will has once again surprised him. That Will had _noticed_ is one thing, but that Will had _voiced_ Hannibal's manipulation is quite another. 

Will takes his hand back, rubbing at his face, and Hannibal watches him smile. He's quiet, contemplative, and yet he's also silently delighted at this new information. He's delighted that Will is pushing back in his own way. Perhaps, if only for a moment, Hannibal feels a frisson of honest respect for this curious man. He also makes no move to hide the way he wets his lips at the very implication that he might like to watch, or _hear._

 _"_ You _are_ a clever boy, aren't you?" Hannibal asks, and there's no shame or condescension whatsoever in his voice. Instead he just sounds proud. There's a flicker of amused interest in his eyes following Will's little challenge. "Your impression was correct. I definitely enjoyed hearing you earlier. Just as I would enjoy watching you. I think you underestimate just how intriguing I find you. How captivating..." Hannibal trails off, and he allows himself the boldness of looking Will over appreciatively, simply so Will can see it. 

"I would love nothing more than for you to engage me, but - and you must excuse me my indulgences - sexual pleasure is but one on a broad spectrum. As I said... there are many emotions, sensations, and experiences that I wish you to have. Too many for one evening."

Hannibal leans just a little closer, close enough that their arms press together. He takes a slow breath, partly for theatrics, partly for Will's scent. "I've told you that I wish to spoil you. That hasn't changed. Yet there are many different types of pleasure that I wish to expose you to. Food, drink, finery, expectation, joy, safety, comfort, desire... You warned me of your tendency to be somewhat obsessive. I believe I'm showing my hand now. I want you," Hannibal says heatedly. "But sexual pleasure has a tendency to eclipse the rest, and there is _so_ much more that I wish for you to experience."

* * *

Further and further this rabbit hole goes. When will he find the bottom and will it kill him when he does? (After all, it's never the fall, but the landing that does it.) Will is helpless. He likes tumbling after Hannibal. Hannibal is actually within his reach - right next to him - and yet Will feels like his arms are outstretched, fingers splayed wide and trying to catch him as they tumble down together. Maybe this leads to the abyss. In his need, Will is both powerless and powerful. He _needs_ to search out the darkness, thus powerless, but he's powerful in that it's emboldening to have a clear objective.

He's essentially inviting Hannibal to be some sort of voyeur. Will's never done anything like this before. He's really not this kinky, and yet, _Hannibal_ added into the equation seems to mess up his former way of being entirely. Will hasn't behaved in such ways until the possibility of _more_ in conjunction _with_ Hannibal had been birthed in his mind. It's far too quick and yet Will suspects his mind races to re-wire his urges and reactions, to bend this way and that way. The prospect of being malleable should be frightening, but isn't it also titillating? To stand on the tracks of an oncoming train and plan to jump away at the last moment.

Will is sure he's surprised Hannibal, but Hannibal hides it well. Is he more surprised at Will's insinuation or that Will had caught Hannibal trying to artfully sway him? Maybe it's a game. Will's unsure. The idea of a game doesn't _not_ appeal, although he suspects he _should_ be bothered by it. 

' _You **are** a clever boy, aren't you?'_

Here's another thing he should likely be bothered about. Being referred to as a _boy_. But Will doesn't exactly mind. Hannibal is older than him, it doesn't sound condescending, and being clever is a compliment. When Hannibal's eyes travel over him, Will sucks his bottom lip, his pulse skyrocketing. For the briefest of moments he's in his dream again, the Ripper looking over him, pinned and impaled, helpless. The words _intriguing_ and _captivating_ swirl in his mind. Would Hannibal have found him intriguing and captivating on that work bench, tools after tool being pushed into--

When Hannibal leans in and speaks about spoiling him again, Will's eyes re-focus and he comes back to himself.

' _I want you... But sexual pleasure has a tendency to eclipse the rest, and there is **so** much more that I wish for you to experience.'_

"You worried that if I have a taste, I won't want the _rest_ of my meal?" Will asks in return and his eyes are alight with a playfulness he so rarely possesses but does actually enjoy. It's not meant to be, though.

"Every word you say makes me only want you more - in any and all ways possible, Hannibal. Against my better judgment, against my guarded nature. Every fucking second I'm with you I'm both terrified and thrilled." Gone is the light smile, replaced with something far more fierce as Will leans in close. He doesn't make to kiss Hannibal, but merely share the air. There's very little room in between their faces. 

"You're the feeling of _epiphany_ I get when my mind connects the dots and my imagination colors the picture of hideous crimes. I simultaneously dread and have become addicted to it."

* * *

In this moment, Hannibal is not sure what to expect and the reality is thrilling. He trails off, and a part of him expects there to be a break between his words and Will's. He expects a pause, for Will to think on his words, to need time to understand what Hannibal has said. Yet it's hardly more than a few seconds later when Will responds, and Hannibal finds himself honestly taken aback with how _quickly_ Will has understood. He'd expected to need to speak bluntly, and yet Will's response is succinct. Hannibal's eyebrows climb on his forehead in pleasant surprise, and there's a hint of a smile in his eyes when he regards Will favorably.

There's also a hunger there, a curious sensation. Hannibal is no stranger to desire, but rarely does he find himself distracted by it, or with desire out of his own control. The spark he feels for this man is not one he'd planned, and it's all the sweeter for it.

Yet when the humor leaves Will's eyes, Hannibal feels that spark grow. He feels more than that, though, and it's a thrilling sensation. As Will's smile hardens into something fiercer, so too does the buzz along Hannibal's skin sharpen into something else. He can feel _power_. Will Graham has no idea the power he has, how in tune he is with more than just the physical plane of existence. Hannibal can feel his awareness like electricity humming over his skin and the sensation is fiercely intimate. Everything about Will in this moment is, from the slate-blue of his eyes to the way Will leans in closer. No, the way he _looms_ in closer. 

For a moment, Hannibal can feel it. He can feel a buzzing of power, and more than a simple hint of darkness. He can see raised hackles and bared fangs, can see behind simple milk teeth and small claws to witness hints of the creature within. It changes the emotion between them immediately, turns it from playful to _more_. To powerful, to sexual, to selfish, to hedonistic... all that and more. Hannibal is silent as Will speaks, and when Will leans in close enough to almost press their foreheads together, Hannibal allows himself to bask in the proximity. He considers leaning in. He considers closing the distance between them on his own, and _that_ is surprising. That Will could not only want him, but make him want _back_ is intriguing.

' _You're the feeling of **epiphany**_ ," Will says, and there's something so visceral about that phrasing that Hannibal wishes - just for a moment - that he could be blunt. That he could take his own claws to the farce of a shell around this man and _rip_ him free of his restraints. He doesn't; these matters need to be handled delicately, and he has never been accused of being sloppy. He won't start now. Yet Hannibal cannot deny that he _wants_ to. He breathes in deeply, sampling Will's air. Then, finally, he leans in just enough to press their foreheads together. The buzzing of spiritual power along his skin is even more intense with connection. 

"That is what it is to be known, Will," Hannibal breathes quietly. One of his hands lifts, and the tips of his fingers brush against the sharp angle of Will's jaw, tracing it with the care one would a knife for fear of getting cut. "To be known as you are. Not the version you show Jack Crawford. Not the idealized version that you share with your own thoughts - the way you feel you _should_ be. This feeling is what it is to be known. To feel bare, to feel vulnerable, and yet to be accepted for it. You tested me during our sessions," Hannibal says, as if shedding light on it. "You were tense and guarded, and then you lashed out. You tried to shock me, akin to a horse attempting to throw off its rider. I expect that you will continue to attempt to shock me in the future. I encourage it."

Hannibal's fingers curl, his nails scratching lightly over the stubble on Will's jaw. He wets his lips slowly. "I wish to savor you, Will. You are not merely something to use once and toss aside. You have a vicious, achingly beautiful mind and sharp insight. You are cunning and fierce, and yet you are malleable. You'd bend to me were I to ask it of you. You already have. You were resistant to the idea of giving up your control until you knew you could choose to give it to me. You knew I'd want it. You knew I'd want you. So cunning, so intelligent... I look forward to getting to know you as you are, Will."

* * *

When Will closes his eyes, the pendulum swings in his mind and time reverses. Blood splatters fly back, wounds close up, bullets return to chambers and life is restored. It's like the madness never occured and, for a moment, Will is simply an outsider bearing witness to the storm touching down. And then he's the perpetrator. He's the killer. The rapist. He steps into their shoes, his hands strangle throats, his arms shake from the recoil of a firearm. He feels what they feel, he thinks what they think. He's never really talked about it. A few people have asked. Christ, Freddie Lounds had tried to track him down and get him to spill the beans on how his so-called murder fantasizing worked. That hadn't ended well.

And as Will interprets the evidence and makes jumps that others can and often do miss, there is a very visceral sensation that ignites, a spark that lights everything up and allows him to truly _see_. Will sees horror and beauty, lives ended too soon and the touch of violence and evil _changing_ the world.

He both hates and loves it. It's simultaneously a rush and a crash. Recreating and understanding the intricacies of each crime comes with a sick clammy thrill in which Will doesn't know if he'll become nauseated or excited by - sometimes it's both. Sometimes that's worse. Either way, he hasn't quit and Will knows he won't quit this connection that's barely just begun.

There's an undeniable pull between them. It's an insistent heat and yet it's a crisp coolness from an evening breeze ensuring he won't be devoured. Hannibal shifts closer yet, their foreheads pressing together. Faintly, Will thinks he hears white noise in his skull, but he pushes it down. Makes no sense and Hannibal's words grip him. Hannibal's fingers travel along his jaw and Will is paralyzed. 

' _This feeling is what it is to be known. To feel bare, to feel vulnerable, and yet to be accepted for it.'_

He still doesn't move. He can't move. Will would like to move. He'd like to smash his mouth into Hannibal's to get him to shut up. Will would like to steal and swallow the words right from Hannibal's own mouth. When nails gently scratch, it only marginally helps Will focus. He still doesn't move. _'I look forward to getting to know you as you are, Will.'_

"I look forward to watching you lose control," Will admits, voice hushed and inauspicious. They've not discussed it, but Will has glimpsed Hannibal's ironclad control. He knows Hannibal had wanted to kiss him a moment ago but had elected to not. Will wants that to fucking change. Will wants to be undeniable. 

"I'm going to find that storm. In time." With that, he edges slightly closer, enough that their lips almost graze before he pulls away. 

He's learning Hannibal's game.

* * *

This is one of the many things that Hannibal finds he's drawn to about Will Graham. Every now and then, this man has insight that truly intrigues him. Sometimes it's a realization. Sometimes it's a phrase. Sometimes it's but a single word ( _epiphany_ ) but Hannibal finds himself feeling beautifully captivated and hooked. It's a thrilling sensation for a man who so fervently guards his control. He often winds his arms around it, protecting it from outside view. Then Will comes in with his grand realizations and sweeping gestures, and decimates Hannibal's control. Perhaps he doesn't destroy it, but he rocks the foundation of it, and despite the inherent danger in that, Hannibal doesn't turn away. He doesn't shut down. He remains and observes, intrigued.

As Hannibal observes, it strikes him retroactively that Will is doing the same. It's written in his actions, in the way he moves. Hannibal's responses trigger actions from Will, and after every building moment, Will responds. Will is not proactive, he's _reactive_ , and Hannibal finds himself caught by the simple changes. He speaks of freedom, of the desire to know Will as he is, and Will edges in closer. He feels the heat of Will's breath, the warmth of his skin, hears the soft murmur of his voice in this moment of intimacy that feels like bared fangs and claws. Hannibal has never encountered anyone who responds to intimacy like this, and it's thrilling.

So when Will speaks, when he murmurs low promises of lost control and storms and then leans in closer, Hannibal doesn't draw back. In the space between seconds, he questions the desire to resist this, to avoid kissing Will, to hold him at arm's length. Surely one wouldn't shake this budding dynamic. But as Will leans in and Hannibal waits for the press of lips... it never happens. He swears he can feel the lost friction, can feel the crackle of intent and energy, but the kiss never happens. Instead Will suddenly draws back, and it's like support being ripped away. Hannibal doesn't stumble, but he _is_ left somewhat thrown. It takes him a moment to regain himself, to find the cracks in his composure and fill them in again.

Any other time, he'd be furious. Like this, he is only fascinated. 

Drawing back, Hannibal draws in a small breath, holds it, and then lets it out, then reaches for his wine glass. He takes a sip to inject a longer pause in conversation. When he turns back to Will, he's in control again, though there is a hint of awe present in his gaze. He's never met anyone like this man, especially not someone who not only notices his game but twists it to suit his own rules.

"I have no doubt that if anyone could threaten my control, it would be you, Will," Hannibal breathes softly. "Just take heed when chasing storms. They are not called destructive for no reason."

It's not a threat. In a sense, it's not even a warning. It's just a fact. Hannibal draws himself together again, then offers Will a small smile. Just like that, the gnawing tension eases; he needs to steer this back into safer waters. 

"It will be some time before dinner is ready. Would you like to see the rest of the house? I would like you to feel comfortable here, and that will likely be very difficult if you aren't aware of your environment. Allow me to show you around."

* * *

He wants to kiss Hannibal, but Will understands, more now than before, that Hannibal wants to build anticipation. To savor him. So he must dredge up some self-control to play this game. It's a game of seduction, isn't it? Of hushed utterances, interested eyes and glancing touches. It's fervently and openly courting intimacy, but still holding back with the promise of _more_. It's something Will's never attempted before. He's sure he will stumble at some point, rush ahead with grasping hands.

And Hannibal will still accept him, will still want him. Will knows, yes he does, and it's freeing in a sense but also suffocating. They'll keep on tumbling, down and down they'll go and the end is there somewhere, the landing, where everything will come to a stop, and maybe his heart will be on that list, because why would there be a soft landing for him, a happy ending? Will's never held much stock in that. Happy endings are for for other people. His story will end bloody like his dreams.

But it's not bloody now. Will watches Hannibal reach for his wine, to let silence settle over them, only serving to accent the prolific words he'd moments ago stated. Hannibal knows he could do it, could threaten his control and find the storm. Hannibal is also not wrong: storms are destructive, Will doesn't know what he'd find when it touches down, if it won't tear him to shreds, but that's okay. It suits him just fine. 

Just like getting up and moving around, Hannibal back to playing the gracious host.

"Sure, lets do the tour-thing." Will rises. He wants another drink, but he won't ask. He'll follow Hannibal and learn this new environment that he has a feeling he will be spending much more time at.

* * *

Will doesn't need to ask for another drink. Hannibal retrieves it for him before they start off. Given how long Will is going to be here, Hannibal can calculate the approximate blood alcohol content and he knows Will will be safe to drive later. So he walks to the liquor shelf once more, pours Will a few more fingers of scotch, and then hands him the drink. With his own wine glass in hand, Hannibal offers Will that same smile and turns away, beginning to lead him from the sitting room. 

They're both aware of the other, particularly of the state of mental and physical arousal their conversation and closeness had revealed, but Hannibal says nothing on the matter. He's aware of what the lighting in the hallway will do. He's aware that Will can likely see the evidence of his proximity, of his teasing - the evidence that he'd chosen to play Hannibal's game. Hannibal makes no move to hide it. In a sense, this is Will's reward - visual proof that he _has_ an effect on Hannibal. 

The tour takes time, but all good things do. Hannibal guides Will through the house, room by room. Hannibal's home is large, the decor all similar with the exception of a few of the bathrooms and the kitchen. He's casual as he leads Will down hallways accented with paintings, and while Hannibal could speak for ages upon each one, he only stops to speak about the ones Will seems curious in. He leads Will by decorative plants and bit by bit, he offers Will the layout of the house. In a way, it's a bit like introducing a pet to its new environment, and as Hannibal walks and explains each room, he likes to imagine that he can see Will's shoulders relaxing. Will sips his drink, asks the occasional question, but ultimately Hannibal reads his contentment in the look in his eyes, in the absence of uncertainty.

He shows Will to the study on the main floor, filled with great bookcases filled with books. He leads him through a guest room and shows him to the pantry, where Hannibal knows he keeps far more stocked than most would, particularly for someone who doesn't strictly need to eat. Yet it's when he leads the way up the vast, ornate staircase that the feeling between them shifts. Hannibal doesn't stop explaining, telling Will about the hand-carved railings of the staircase, telling him about the history of the home, but he can feel the slight tension in the air and he welcomes it. Hannibal's smile is small when he leads Will upstairs to a different study - something akin to an office - and Will sees the rough sketches and drafting paper on the table, he knows he's broadening Will's understanding of him. They don't linger long, but Hannibal had shown him for a reason. He wishes to humanize himself as much as he can, to give Will a glimpse into his insight and his own hobbies. 

By the time they stop at Hannibal's bedroom, Hannibal can all but feel Will's sharper curiosity. Ultimately he knows that a normal tour wouldn't include such a personal space, but Hannibal opens the door just the same and invites Will in. He shows Will the muted colors and the large bed, the flowing curtains and grand picture window that catches the light in the house. He shows him his space, and while Will looks around the room, Hannibal has eyes only for Will.

The timer goes off downstairs a few minutes later, and Hannibal leads the way back down. He guides Will into the dining room and instructs him to wait while he handles the final notes of dinner. Hannibal is gracious, leaving Will to sit at the table, staring at the large, ornate centerpiece filled with an artful display of the natural - flowers, nature - and the odd, in the form of porcupine quills. 

Hannibal is gone for only a few minutes, but when he returns, his arms are laden elegantly with two bowls. The silverware is already on the table, and the rich, thick scent of dinner suffuses the area. Hannibal sets Will's bowl down with a flourish, his smile bordering on pride. 

"Dilled blanquette de veau," he says, setting his own dish down. Hannibal unbuttons the button on his suit jacket and takes a seat at the head of the table, looking to the seat beside him where he'd directed Will to sit. "I figured you might be more comfortable with comfort food, and I'm aware that stews are viewed favorably in Louisiana. That is where you grew up, is it not?"

* * *

Will gladly takes the refill. He's more settled than he has been all evening. He doesn't think it's simply the alcohol either. No. It's him recognizing and comprehending what Hannibal is after. It's a goal Will can support as it specifically involves Hannibal and him - this new, tentative relationship and in the terms of progression. Experiences. While it can be irritating to be told to wait, all it apparently takes is reframing. Anticipation. Build up. Seduction. Will can do this. He's going to.

They both have half-erections. In some ways it's nice to be able to easily observe male arousal compared to that of females. Nothing needs to be said about it. They're both aware of the effects they have on each other. It's mutual. It's promising.

Hannibal's house clearly illustrates the differences between them. The art. Drapes. Plants. All the fucking decor. Mouldings. Lamps. Will keeps any vaguely sardonic comments to himself. A few pieces do catch his attention and Will asks about them. Hannibal answers and doesn't spend too much time on any one piece. Little by little, Hannibal's home is revealed and Will learns about his aesthetic preferences and what he enjoys.

He discovers that Hannibal is quite skilled at drawing. There's of course a curiosity, a desire to know more than what he can only glimpse from the door frame. Will wants to walk over and rifle through the sketches, to learn what Hannibal had found interesting enough to commit to paper. He thinks he sees portraits as well. Maybe one day Hannibal could draw him. Will refrains from seeking. There will be time later and as they move to Hannibal's room, Will is quickly distracted. He can't help but picture then on the large bed or in front of the window. He wants this room to become more familiar. Actually, _every_ room--

A timer sounds. Will doesn't voice any of his thoughts about the room. Later, maybe. They head back downstairs and Will is shown to the dining room. There's a rather elaborate centerpiece on the table that catches his eye as he sits. Soon enough, delicious, hearty scents accompany Hannibal as he returns and serves them. The dish is at slight odds with everything he's been shown tonight, but then Hannibal proves him wrong because Hannibal _had_ chosen to be accommodating.

"Comfortable with comfort foods, huh..." Will remarks, pleasantly surprised that Hannibal had catered to him _before_ they'd even had their little talk. "How thoughtful, thank you _Doctor_." He smiles, being cheeky in adding the title before picking up the spoon and trying the first mouthful. Will feels Hannibal's eyes on him as flavor bursts in his mouth and the content sound that follows is honestly genuine. He doesn't feel embarrassed, not really; he remembers Hannibal had wanted to watch him experience pleasure and good food. 

After he chews and swallows, he comments, "Delicious." 

* * *

There is something immediately pleased in Will's eyes and Hannibal observes it calmly, satisfied by the sight. He knows before Will has said anything that he's surprised him. While Hannibal knows he could have made something more elaborate - perhaps integrating sugared porcupine quills for both aesthetics and flavor - Hannibal doubts that such a display would have earned him the look of pleased warmth that passes Will's eyes. Hannibal admires it unabashedly, for it means one thing for sure: Will is not used to other people thinking of him first. He is not used to being spoiled, and Hannibal finds himself taken with the idea of spoiling this man properly. 

If his expression brightens so much in response to a simple stew, how might his eyes alight with different stimulus? A gift? A touch? Perhaps an unplanned visit simply to check on Will. Hannibal muses over the possibilities as he takes his seat and unfolds his napkin to lay over his lap. It's done quickly, not to instruct, merely out of habit. He cares little if Will does the same, for his attention is on the way Will reaches for his spoon and leans in to sample the dish. Hannibal watches as Will's lips part, watches as he brings the spoon to his lips, and he takes silent pleasure in the sound that escapes Will at his first taste. There's a pleased curl to Hannibal's smile as he turns back to his own bowl, though given the way he continues to glance back at Will - both subtly and not - he does enjoy watching this man.

"You're quite welcome, Will. I'm glad you enjoy it," he says warmly, pride creeping in around the edges as he lifts his first spoonful to his mouth.

The flavor is rich, as expected, the notes of dill outlining the creamier, robust flavors of the meat, stock, and vegetables mixed together. Hannibal hums a soft sound, thoughtful and pleased, and only after he swallows does he allow himself a small nod. It had turned out brilliantly, but there is more to Hannibal's satisfaction than that.

He glances over at Will in time to see him sample one of the cubes of meat, his lips parting and the pleasure of flavor evident on his tongue. Hannibal feels warmth of a different sort slide through him, something soft but powerful, a quiet whisper. Will eats, trusting, and Hannibal's answering thrill is not all sexual, though there is a hint of his interest in the smile he offers Will after.

"I appreciate that you came over early to help. You left me ample time to prepare the meal without rushing through it, and I must admit, I quite enjoy your company in the kitchen. As well as in my home." 

He doesn't add in how much he enjoys watching Will. That much is evident in the glances he keeps sending him.

* * *

Will can only imagine the type of dishes that Hannibal could easily prepare (and likely did for other guests). Elaborate and exotic in their construction and presentation. Dishes that Will wouldn't even know where to begin with. But this is simpler, this 'stew' of sorts had been for him. It's tasty. True comfort food. There's a real warmth that Will feels at _knowing_ Hannibal had done something specifically _for_ him. Hannibal had thought of him, had thought to ease any possible discomfort... (But wouldn't there be a delight for Hannibal to watch him unsure and uncertain about the food? At the hesitant glances toward an unfamiliar plate...)

Perhaps it's strange to have talked about cannibalism and murder earlier on and then eat with no hesitation, but Will has been living with such demons for a while now. Hannibal's appetite seems unfazed by their earlier discussions which Will is glad for, for he wouldn't have wanted to upset their dinner plans. Now that he knows they're going for it - going for a second date, going for some relationship - he wants this first date to be a success for them.

"I look forward to helping you again in the future," Will replies smoothly and after another bite and slow swallow he adds, "I look forward to being in your _home_ again, too." He smiles, an almost coy thing. 

He can tell Hannibal enjoys watching him, watching him eat, watching _him_ enjoy. It's a little strange, a little new, but Will doesn't mind. Scratch that, he likes it. He really does.

So maybe he puts on a little show. He licks his lips slowly, savoring the remnants of the rich broth. He chews thoughtfully. He closes his eyes briefly to enjoy the taste of the meat and he makes a few soft sounds of pleasure. He can play this game. He _likes_ playing this game. 

They talk, but unlike previously, the topics are light. Will tells him a bit about his dogs, about going ice fishing soon. Hannibal tells him about his love of opera and theatre. When dinner is over, Will knows he's not going to tarry. Hannibal likely expects him to want to stay longer (oh, Will wants to), to have a nightcap, but Will mentions his dogs and that he should get going. 

They're at the entry way and Will is slipping on his boots at a leisurely pace. One thing he's learned tonight is that Hannibal really likes watching him. Because of that, Will is in no rush to complete the task. When he rises, he purposefully steps into Hannibal's space. So quickly he feels that magnetic pull, electricity crackling between them. Will wants to fucking push Hannibal against the door, his hands working at Hannibal's buttons, yanking off layers. Will also wants Hannibal to spin him around and pin him against the wall, his chest to Will's back like it had been in the kitchen.

"I had a really good time tonight, thank you. Looking forward to getting to know you more intimately," Will murmurs, eyebrows lifting in suggestion.

* * *

Dinner is perfect. It becomes quickly apparent to him that Will enjoys being watched. Luckily for the both of them, Hannibal quite likes watching. There's no doubt about it that Will is putting on a show for him, that some of his expressions are exaggerated, but Hannibal doesn't mind. He can see through the cracks in Will's armor. He can see through the exaggeration to the reality beneath, and Hannibal finds himself quite taken by how much Will honestly appears to like his food, as well as his attention. 

Hannibal's expression is nothing but gentle pleasure and pride, a soft flicker of satisfaction behind his eyes as Will takes his time. Each spoonful of stew accompanies a response - a sigh, a sound of pleasure, a slow lick of Will's lips - and Hannibal drinks each one in like he cannot help himself. As they eat and talk, Hannibal's gaze doesn't lift, doesn't move away. Aside from standing to retrieve more alcohol for the both of them and the lingering touch to Will's fingers as he hands Will his glass, Hannibal's attention doesn't leave Will once. He watches Will's satisfaction, basks in it, and he keeps his attention despite lighter topics. Will speaks of his dogs (a _lot_ of dogs) and of his desire to go ice fishing (to which Hannibal already has plans). Hannibal is left pleasantly surprised that Will allows him to speak as well. Will listens and Hannibal takes his turn as they eat dinner, and the experience is one that Hannibal knows he wishes to revisit.

There's true satisfaction within with each bite of meat that Will samples. The flex of his throat and each soft, musical sigh sends power and arousal bleeding through Hannibal's veins. He feels energized and sharp with his own unexpected desire by the time the evening draws to a close, and while he begins to consider how to politely withdraw, Will removes the problem from him by suggesting that he needs to leave. Just for a moment, Hannibal is thrown; he'd expected Will to push, to insist, and Hannibal is thrown briefly off balance before he recovers smoothly.

With grace, he leads Will to the door and leaves him to his boots. Hannibal gathers Will's jacket for him, though spends ample time watching the arousing curves and angles of Will's body as Will bends to slip his boots on. And when Will turns to him and suddenly steps in close, Hannibal feels the tension and charge between them like a spitting live wire. He swallows and then lifts Will's jacket, taking his time to ease it around Will's shoulders, directing his arms through with perhaps more intimacy than is strictly necessary. His gaze drops for a moment to Will's lips and once more, Hannibal considers his desire to do more. He reins it in. Instead he lifts one hand to Will's cheek, touching it delicately. One thumb slides over the scratch of Will's stubble, just barely glancing over the corner of Will's lips before skirting away. 

"As am I, Will. You've proven to be a thrilling companion. While I'm not surprised, I _am_ pleased." Hannibal's thumb slides slowly, almost sensually, down the line of Will's jaw. He makes no move to step back; they're close, less than inches apart, and he feels only the familiar buzzing tension. "I, too, am looking forward to intimacy with you, in all its forms. When may I see you again?"

* * *

Will no longer feels awkward being helped into his jacket. He understands his role in this. Hannibal wishes to spoil him, to cater to him, to indulge. Will needs only to be receptive to these advances, to soak up the attention like a sponge. He sees Hannibal's eyes track downward to his mouth. Hannibal wants to kiss him too, but more than that, Hannibal wants _him_ to want. To crave and yearn.

Well, Will wants that too. He wants them both to drown in want, to feel desire curl around them like vines and pull them under. Helpless and hedonistic together.

Will's lips part instinctively when Hannibal's thumb lightly grazes over the corner of his mouth before pulling away. Will also knows Hannibal Lecter is a master at subtle teasing. He's learned much tonight. 

His heart pounds in his chest. So close, but not close enough. It's all just a little taste, a dip into intimacy, but the proximity alone feels pronounced. 

(This thing between them, this pull, this current of energy, does Hannibal feel it too? He must.)

' _When may I see you again?_ '

Will has some lame retort on the tip of his tongue, some line like, 'in your dreams if you're lucky' but he holds himself back. He's not that type of guy. He never has been. 

"Is Sunday evening too soon? That would give me enough time to catch up on marking." 

Will doesn't know if he's asking for too much, but he'll try. Hannibal knows he's rather eager anyway.

" _I'd_ like to see you then," Will adds on and he pushes his jaw into the touch. "I'd also like you to kiss me breathless right here, right now, but I know you'd rather wait." He grins a little, wetting his lips before stepping back enough to reach for Hannibal's hands and bringing them to his coat's zipper. "So I suppose I'll settle for you zipping me up." 

* * *

Hannibal does want to kiss this man. He wants that and so much more. He wants to dig his claws into the budding hint of darkness he's seen. He wants to thread his tendrils through Will's mind, to sew himself into Will's seams and pollute him or - better yet - emphasize what is already there. He wants to drag the reluctant parts of Will out into the open, mindless of their protests. He wants to bask in this man, in the spiritual energy and danger. 

Yet Hannibal wants more than that, and it surprises him. He wants to spoil Will, wants to see his eyes light up in pleasure just as much as he wants to challenge him and see his eyes burn with fierceness. He wants strong emotion, wants to be caught in Will's torrent and let it willingly drag him under just for a chance to glimpse. Will's energy is strong and Hannibal is fascinated by not only who Will is, but how he thinks.

He also wants this man close, wants him spread out and begging. The sexual aspect is tamer compared to the rest, but that he wants at _all_ is a shock. Every touch, every whisper of intimacy only digs its claws in harder, and it's all Hannibal can do to resist the urge to dip his thumb into the wetness of Will's mouth when his lips part. He doesn't. Instead he draw a slow breath, focuses, and his throat bobs in a small swallow.

"Sunday evening isn't too soon," he confirms softly, and curls his fingers as Will presses into his touch. 

The admission that Will wants to be kissed breathless is tempting, but before Hannibal can lead him into conversation about why he can't, Will is drawing away. Hannibal watches as Will guides his hands to the zipper of Will's jacket, and the look in Hannibal's eyes is both pleased and heated as he ducks his head in understanding and then acquiesces. He slowly zips up Will's jacket, the sound overly loud between them, and somehow even that holds a note of sexuality.

Hannibal reaches up again only once, just barely enough to graze his hand over Will's cheek, slower, sensual. "I look forward to it. To seeing you, and to one day doing exactly as you've said and kissing you breathless. That and much more." 

Hannibal leans in then, just barely enough to bring their faces closer. He looks at Will quietly for that single moment, then leans in enough to almost brush his lips over the shell of Will's ear. His voice is no louder, but there is heat to it. 

"I know you'd _like_ me to kiss you, but I want you to _want_ me to kiss you. I want you to feel the desire down to your core. To let it encompass your thoughts, your actions. I'm waiting for want and desire to eclipse your mind, to shepherd out the rest, to leave you aching for it. I want you to think of nothing else, to live in that desire, to _crave_ it, to beg for it. Then, dear Will, I believe I will give you what you want."

Hannibal slowly draws back, his free hand sliding down the line of Will's jacket, tracing the zipper. He shares a somewhat heated glance with Will and then reaches a hand over for the front door. When he opens it, his eyes don't leave Will once. 

"I'll endeavor to contact you before Sunday evening to work out plans. Please drive safe. And Will... tonight? Think of me." 

Offering Will a small smile after the subtle-but-clear suggestion, Hannibal finally removes his hand from Will's cheek and nods, giving him permission to go. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not... Not in my nature to trust and yet you coax me out, almost as if I was made to be devoured by you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy, sexy update and more plot, kinda... :٩(˘◊˘)۶ Enjoy~
> 
> Will written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Hannibal written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Hannibal's words linger on the drive back to Wolf Trap. They hadn't been surprising, no, but hearing them had been an experience in and of itself. They surely had the desired effect. He'd left Hannibal's with another uncomfortable half-erection, chagrined that Hannibal had been so damn bold. 

' _I'm waiting for want and desire to eclipse your mind, to shepherd out the rest, to leave you aching for it_.'

What the hell was he supposed to do with _that_? Aching for a mere kiss? The prospect is daunting. Will hadn't been able to come up with a single thing other than mumbling a goodbye. Of course that had been _after_ Hannibal had said to think of him tonight, as if it hadn't been any question that Will would go home and jerk off. 

They both know more of each other. It's unsettling, but it's also exciting. 

To be known. Seen. Felt. To share experiences and sensations. Entering in some relationship with Hannibal. Dating. Words that Will knows, and has held some trepidation toward for some time. He's going head first here. He's pretty much laid all his cards down on the table for Hannibal's perusal and Hannibal still finds him interesting enough. Worthy of a potential obsession even.

Halfway home he calls Bev and puts his phone on speaker.

"I think I'm dating my unofficial psychiatrist," Will says as soon as the call connects. Caller ID is a convenient thing as it allows him to skip the pleasantries.

"Hello to you too," Bev answers, sounding both curious and amused. "Do we do girl talk now?"

Will honestly laughs. "I guess we do?" They're friends, yeah, but it's usually _her_ tracking him down. This is a first for them, but it's already been an evening of firsts for him so why not keep the streak going.

"Well, I'm honored to be your girl. So, tell me the juicy bits. I assume you just got done with said date?"

(Will has no plans on telling her the so-called juicy bits.)

"Yeah, I went to his house and he fucking cooked for me, Bev," Will tells her instead. It still sounds bizarre to him.

"Ooo, fancy, he cook well at least?"

Apparently Beverly Katz had remembered when he'd mentioned that his therapist was a male. Will is glad he won't have to bring up the gender thing. Bev is simply cool and collected about it all and he really needs to buy her a coffee sometime, or try to be a better friend in general.

"Yes, he's very fancy. He cooked in a damn suit and apron."

"Wow, the man has balls. I'm a disaster in the kitchen." 

"You don't have anything to say about the... ethical side of things?" Will can't help but ask.

"I'm not your mom, Will. You said 'unofficial,' anyway. I trust your judgment."

"Right..." A hesitant twitch of a smile is on his face.

"You've never mentioned anything before, casual dating or otherwise, so I'm assuming he's passed whatever tests you had set up for him."

Will can't help but laugh at that. He keeps his eyes on the familiar road, feeling _good_ to be doing something as simple and normal as discussing a date with a friend. Is this really his life now?

"You're right, dating is not usually my forte, but there's just something undeniable about him..."

"You've got it bad," she comments.

Will can't disagree with her. They talk for a few minutes before a clash has her ending the call to investigate what her cat had just got into. 

When he arrives home, he's in a bit a daze. Will lets his dogs out, finishes his flask while they run about and then rounds them up. He pisses, brushes his teeth, strips down, puts his clothes in the basket and then climbs into bed. Will wastes no time in grabbing a handful of kleenex and then his hand drifts lower. He's hard again in no time flat, hand stroking quickly. 

He does think of Hannibal.

He thinks of Hannibal unzipping his jacket instead of opening the door and seeing him out. He thinks of Hannibal taking his sweet time undoing his belt and fly, unbuttoning his pants before reaching in and gingerly pulling his hard dick out. Will thinks of Hannibal pushing him against the door, leaving only enough room for Hannibal's arm to reach around and jerk him off. Will thinks of Hannibal gripping his body tight, and Will feeling the answering hardness against his ass as he grinds back. He thinks of Hannibal stroking him slowly and whispering into his ear, murmuring about desire and that he wants Will _desperate_ to get off. Will knows Hannibal would want him to beg to come--

Will comes shortly after that. Panting, palm covering the tip of his cock to try and make less of a mess. His mind is buzzing, a soft white noise that is calming in a way. He grabs the tissues and cleans himself off as best he can. When he shuts his eyes, he dreams of falling into a dark, warm pool of blackness. It's a gentle caress and he doesn't care if he'll drown.

* * *

Saturday passes with Will marking papers and taking it easy. He's all too pleased when a text comes in inviting him over for dinner Sunday evening. That'd be his reward and a nice way to the end the weekend.

Unfortunately, a call comes in Sunday afternoon that has Will bundling up and driving to a crime scene on the outskirts. He doesn't even question it, he just gets up and goes. Back to the grind. 

He's greeted with the regulars: Zeller, Price, Beverly and Jack while other officials meander about, securing the area. One unlucky trucker is torn open up on his cab. Jugular and carotids severed, esophagus destroyed, head almost bitten off, evisceration by claws. It's ruthless and violent, _instinctual_ and as Will talks with them, the mentioning of livestock mutilation only makes it more apparent that it's not some rabid animal. It'd been practicing before, but it's now upping the ante.

"It's bloodsport," Jack states and Will has nothing to say in response. He's not wrong.

The red is a stark contrast on the white, crisp snow. There's no artistry here, only brutality. After focusing on the Eye and the Ripper cases, this is somewhat of a shock to his system. Evisceration, dismemberment, everything left behind, everything accounted for. It's not an animal hunting to kill, hunting for meat and survival. It's a beast that takes pleasure in the kill. It's a savage thrill and Will knows it's going to get worse. 

His boots crunch in the snow as he walks around the scene. The chill in the air is almost comforting. Hannibal's warmth, the pleasure and joy of touch and connection seem distant now. Will's back amidst his people, looking at carnage, and trying to make sense of it. It's what he's good at, after all. 

When he decides to pay a visit to the farms where the livestock mutilations had been, he does remember to text Hannibal and cancel their date. There won't be enough time for him to head home, feed and let his dogs out and then drive to Baltimore. 

To his surprise, Hannibal offers to check in on his dogs for him. Will is properly taken back. He doesn't exactly _want_ Hannibal to be in his home alone; the offer is helpful, but also inconvenient for Hannibal. It appeals in a way. It speaks of Hannibal spoiling him, _catering_ to him...

Will accepts and texts where the spare key is and then gives instructions for feeding his dogs. Needing help is human, right?

[I'm only allowing you to do this because you apparently want to spoil me.]

He quickly taps out another message:

[Thanks by the way. Would prefer to spend time with you, but work calls.]

* * *

As successful as the date had been, Hannibal _is_ reluctant to watch Will go that evening. The desire to invite him back in and lead him upstairs is sharp, not merely for the physical pleasure that would follow, but for the desire to let Will sleep beside him and open his mind for Hannibal's perusal. He's more taken than ever by this brilliant young man, and the desire to _see_ the inner workings of his mind, to play his dreams like harp strings and watch them shift and mold like watercolor under his brush is overwhelming. Despite this, he does nothing, allowing Will to return to his car while admiring the deep flush to his skin and the scent of arousal once more on the air. 

Hannibal lingers in his doorway until Will's car leaves his sight, and only then does he step back inside. The house feels oddly empty after having such a dynamic presence complementing his own. The walls feel a little more barren despite the fact that nothing has truly changed, and Hannibal is quite intrigued by his own response. He can't remember if this has ever happened before, and the chance to study not only Will's responses but also his own is interesting. 

With that in mind, Hannibal returns to the sitting room and then the kitchen, idly cleaning up. He glances at the leftover stew and briefly considers bringing it to Will, but ultimately there is still a mild risk in it. He doubts that Will is going to analyze the contents of his dinner, but better safe than sorry. 

When Hannibal retires to bed that evening, it's without a book or patient files. It's without anything but his memories and the thought of Will honoring what Hannibal had told him to do. He wonders idly what Will looks like so unabashed, so free. The desire to see him like that curls low in his mind, and while Hannibal doesn't indulge - hoping to make the moment that much sweeter after he's denied himself for awhile - he allows himself to drift on those thoughts for quite some time.

* * *

Hannibal rises the next morning with a purpose. He cooks, he cleans, he tidies up the corners of his home, and then he dons a suit and a thicker woolen overcoat and ventures out. He has no patients today, nor does he have any tomorrow, and the thought of meeting Will for another date the next evening is lingering in his mind. He wonders what that might bring, how Will might react. The desire to see him thrown is high, but so is the desire to see Will owning his own discomfort, the desire to see him pushing back. Hannibal recalls the way Will had responded at the door last night, and as he climbs into his Bentley and heads towards town, his thoughts linger on the darker, smug look that Will had so confidently sent him before Hannibal had whispered sin so close to his ear. 

There's a prickle of sensation somewhere in the back of Hannibal's mind as he makes his way downtown. It's hot, a faint whisper of what could happen soon. He enjoys the shade of those thoughts, but it doesn't stop him from continuing on his way. While a part of him wishes to go to his tailor, he resists the urge simply because he doesn't yet know Will's measurements. 

One day he will. One day, perhaps, he will take Will himself and get to observe him getting his measurements taken: his uncertainty, his discomfort, each glance toward Hannibal, seeking out his approval and support. But for now there is something much simpler that Hannibal can offer. He'd told himself to keep it in mind the night before, and that mental note doesn't fail him.

The rich scents of multiple colognes meet him when he wanders into the store, and an old gentleman behind the counter looks up and immediately looks surprised to see him. Hannibal is known here, but he works on a particular schedule. Given that he's been a dedicated customer for many years, however, there's no hesitance as he's greeted by the older man. 

It takes Hannibal very little time to explain that he's looking for a gift for someone, and while he's directed to many different samples, Hannibal merely selects four that he believes might do well. He takes all four samples with him with the promise to return later, and then makes his way out of the establishment to do more errands for the day. 

He meanders by the farmer's market and a local dealer of antiquities. Hannibal merely enjoys the lack of responsibility that the errands afford him, though when he happens across an old silver pocket watch with an elegant etching of a ship on the front of it, his interest turns to amusement. He purchases it on a whim, and as he walks back to his vehicle, he pulls up Will's contact and sends him a text with a suggested time for their date the next day. It's met with enthusiasm, and Hannibal smiles.

As the day wears on, the top notes from the colognes he'd taken with him fade to their secondary scent, and finally their tertiary. Each time the notes change, Hannibal's eyes close and he breathes in, picturing Will, what he knows about the man, about his personality. It's a toss-up between two in the end, but ultimately when Hannibal returns to the shop, he buys an artful bottle of cologne, mindless of the price. The hints of lemongrass and bergamot, an artful blend of cinnamon, and the woodsy base-note of cedar and moss linger on his senses, and Hannibal only thinks of _Will_.

* * *

The next day, Hannibal makes a point to wrap the gifts, though selects only the cologne to put on the counter. He's halfway through contemplating the menu for that evening when Will's text comes in. Hannibal glances at it and immediately frowns, though he finds himself somewhat curious as to what the case Will has been called in on might be. Curiosity wars with a hint of possessiveness, and in the end, the idea comes to him easily. Hannibal offers to mind Will's dogs for him, and while Will seems surprised at the offer, Hannibal insists upon it. His plans are already shifting, his thoughts drifting to the sudden change in plans. Then his phone chimes once more and Hannibal looks down at the two messages there. 

Some of the irritation he feels fades at the written confirmation that Will would prefer to spend time with him. He considers for only a moment, then responds.

[Thank you for letting me spoil you. And I do understand. Your dogs will be taken care of; remove the concern from your mind. Simply take care of yourself.]

Hannibal tells the truth. While minding Will's dogs is not his idea of _fun_ , he makes it work. With an hour to spare before the dogs are normally fed, Hannibal climbs back into his car. His dark woolen overcoat is even more welcome in the fresh chill of the air, but the dish he loads into the car beside him - properly insulated against the cold - warms the car faster than his jacket. 

It takes Hannibal under an hour to drive all the way out to Wolf Trap. Will's directions are fair, and while the roads do threaten unpleasantness once or twice, Hannibal makes it there with ample time to spare. Will's keys are precisely where he'd said they'd be, and while Hannibal is met with _seven_ pairs of distrustful eyes upon the door opening, he spares Will's dogs a mild (somewhat incredulous) glance and then strides in. 

Immediately he sets the dish in the oven to maintain its heat, and then pulls out the small gift-wrapped bottle to set on the counter near the fridge. The dogs, Hannibal notes with some amusement, don't dare get close to him. Animals are quite spiritually sensitive, and they clearly know that he is not someone as simple as their master. One small dog keeps baring its teeth, but then ducking its head when Hannibal looks at him. As a unit, none of them make more than the occasional whine, torn between uncertainty and fear.

It takes Hannibal very little time to find their food. The majority of the time spent in Will's quaint little home (and it _is_ Will's home; Hannibal quite enjoys the personal touches he can see in the kitchen) is taken up with Hannibal coaxing the dogs into a more relaxed state. 

He'd come prepared with food of his own - a particular taste they've likely never had before. It's the small, brash one that tries it first - small cut-up bits of meat from the stew on Friday - and while the dogs seem distrustful at first, after twenty minutes of careful feeding, all but one - a mottled mutt - has allowed him to pet them. He's greeted with a few wagging tails and no more whining or growling, so he finally puts their food out for them and steps away.

The pack descend upon it like they've never eaten before and Hannibal cocks his head, musing over just what it says about Will Graham that _this_ is his family. 

Still, given that he has no desire to leave Will's home just yet, Hannibal leaves the dogs to their meal and begins to wander as unobtrusively as he can. He intends to snoop far more than he does. Something small and curious catches his eye - a fishing lure, apparently - and he's halfway to investigating it when the glossy photos spread out across Will's living room table catch his eye.

Hannibal freezes.

Gruesome images reflect back at him. Gruesome, _familiar_ images. Closed case photographs of beautiful artistry and tongue-in-cheek (or Bible) humor reflect back at him and Hannibal's eyes widen as he slowly looks around Will's space. Photos of the Chesapeake Ripper's crime scenes are laid out everywhere, denoting more than a mere curiosity. _This_ , Hannibal decides, is an _obsession_ , which makes Will quite dangerous. Which, of course, only makes him more interesting. Hannibal admires his joint handiwork from long ago, stepping around cautiously. He doesn't dare jostle anything, but his interest is far sharper when he finally hears a car rumble up in the driveway. Hannibal spares the photos a final glance and then walks towards the front door.

He meets Will just as Will is stepping out of his car, and while Hannibal _knows_ that Will had not been expecting to see him, he merely offers Will a small, polite smile and tilts his head, almost coquettish. 

"Hello, Will. I hope you don't mind, but I brought you something to eat. You must not have had much time to indulge on your trip today."

* * *

Will knows that there's likely nothing to be learned or gained by visiting the farms where the livestock mutilations occured, but he goes anyway. He wants to see the places where the initial killings began, where a beast and its master likely had their first real attack. Will drives the ten miles to the first farm. He talks to the homeowner, gets his story and then heads out to the barn were the incident occured. 

The blood has mostly been cleaned up, but the smell lingers. Will's never had to recreate a crime scene where the victims had been livestock - animals. Will glances around. A part of him is still annoyed that his plans have all gone to Hell, but in having said plans be upset, he's learned that Hannibal is willing to be inconvenienced for him. It's a small concession, knowing that Hannibal would drive all the way to his not-quite godforsaken hovel and take care of his dogs for him. It's significant, an act of goodwill. Going out of his way to offer assistance. Will's fairly certain Hannibal doesn't even _like_ dogs. 

"C'mon, focus," Will berates himself under his breath. No one is with him, there's no one he has to perform for, but Will doesn't want to waste any more time. He rubs gloved hands together and takes one last look around the barn before he closes his eyes and the familiar pendulum swings.

Terror and gore greet him.

* * *

Tired on the drive back home, Will picks up shitty coffee at the nearest gas station to keep him going. He turns the heat low in his car, not wanting to get warm and sleepy lest he fucking drive off the side of the road. It's not exactly late - just after 8PM - but driving around, being out in the cold, and imagining the shrieks of livestock being mutilated hadn't been fun. It had been the opposite of fun. It hadn't been engaging either. Will isn't able to see enough yet and he knows, as much as he hates it, it will take another crime scene for more clues to slide into place. 

When he nears his lot, he sees Hannibal's car. Will squints, doing a double take, but sure enough Hannibal's fucking Bentley is in his driveway. Will pulls up and parks next to it, climbing out of his own car and hoping he doesn't look as tired and dirty as he feels. Hannibal appears in his doorframe, ready to greet him like some wife (and he _has_ had a long day at work). The thought only gets worse as Hannibal explains that he brought him food. Will pulls off his knit-cap and begins unwinding his scarf as he nears the entry way.

"Shit, thank you, definitely didn't have to do that," Will mumbles out as Hannibal holds the door open for him and Will returns into the comfortable warmth of his small house. 

It smells like home. Feels like home. A few of the dogs come over and Will leans down to pet at Max's head and then give Ellie's fluffy head a scratch. It's all a little surreal with Hannibal here, but Will doesn't really mind. He slips off his gloves before adding on, "But you're right, there was zero indulgence done on said trip." 

Will's hands have his gloves stuffed in the pockets of his coat as he's reaching to undo his jacket. He then remembers Hannibal had liked helping him - had brought up that specific activity - so Will's hands fall to his sides as he regards Hannibal finally, meeting his eyes. 

"It's good to see you," Will murmurs. It's the truth. There's a small, tired smile as Will steps closer to allow Hannibal to assist him with removing his jacket.

* * *

Hannibal's first thought is that Will doesn't look good. His second is that the sight of him like this is more than intriguing. From the chill of the doorway, Hannibal watches as Will exits the car. His shoulders are bowed, the lines on his face so long that they look like they've been etched deeply with a knife. Hannibal's gaze is quick, clinical. Emotional distress and lack of sleep is what he eventually decides, and as much as he enjoys the sight of Will looking so different, _he_ had not been the cause of the distress. Hannibal doesn't necessarily like this, and the realization is mildly surprising. He dwells on it only for a moment before holding the door open for Will.

Will walks inside and he's immediately assaulted by a few of his dogs. Hannibal watches quietly, noting that one of them still hangs back a little, but soon Will's apparent lure brings him in. Hannibal watches Will in his element, watches him handle the animals, and watches the beginning of his stress start to bleed away. But more than that, Hannibal watches as Will undoes his scarf and takes off his gloves... and then stops. 

His eyes brighten in delighted understanding even before Will turns to step in close. Will doesn't say a thing on the matter, and Hannibal effortlessly accepts the silent offer of control. The silent request to _care_ , he thinks. Nurturing is not necessarily in the nature of a demon, but Hannibal has never been typical of his ilk.

He steps in close to Will and reaches up with both hands. One sets on Will's chest while the other takes his zipper and pulls it down. He stays close enough to almost share breath, unzipping Will's jacket for him before slowly sliding it from his shoulders. Hannibal steps away then to walk in behind Will, easing his jacket down and off of his torso. Will smells faintly of cold and blood and stress, the scent not unappealing, but definitely not quite as relaxed as it had been the night before. 

Hannibal turns away to hang Will's jacket up where he'd hung his own, and then he eases back in front of Will, reaching up with one warm hand to cup Will's nearest cheek. His skin is chilled and pale, his hair a mess on his head, and his eyes look sunken and dim with fatigue and whatever he'd seen that night. Hannibal is curious, but more than that, he is possessive.

"It's good to see you as well, Will," Hannibal says. 

Stroking Will's cheek once with his thumb, he then quietly instructs Will to step out of his boots and then sets a hand on the small of Will's back. With Will against his side, Hannibal leads him past the dogs and into the kitchen, where he directs Will to sit at his table. Hannibal walks to the stove, then quickly looks for dishes. A quick test shows that the food had retained its heat, and within mere moments, Hannibal has a bowl set in front of Will, filled with a thick, savory stew in rich stock.

"I'll not ply you with stews too often, but I suspected that you might be cold after your day out. I should ask you what types of food you find comfort in, for days like these. But this should help. It's a venison stew. I'll not bore you with the details of it right now," Hannibal says softly. 

It _is_ venison, as well as pork and chicken, but the _stock_ is not acceptable to most. Hannibal doesn't care. Instead he retrieves Will a spoon and - after a moment (in which he bemoans the lack of French press and quality liquor) - Hannibal glances back at Will with a small, concerned frown. 

"Were we at my home, I would offer you a drink and a blanket, but I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your home yet. May I bring you anything? You'll have to tell me where it is," he adds, almost apologetically.

* * *

Will knows he should likely be perturbed that Hannibal had seen his rather humble living arrangement _and_ stayed. He sleeps in his goddamn living room with seven dogs. Yes, it's a bit disorganized (and glancing around Will can now see that he left his Ripper notes out - great). Still, it's not a disaster, even with the dog hair and work left out. If Hannibal snooped at all (he doubts it) Hannibal would have seen his meticulously folded and organized dresser of clothing. He lives simply, but he's not poor. He's a little relaxed in some areas, but others he likes the order and predictability. 

He hadn't expected Hannibal to stay. But perhaps a part of him had wanted the older man to. Will doesn't want to think on it. Maybe this is another test. Have Hannibal exposed to his home and dogs early and see if he could stomach it. Hannibal remained and his dogs are happy, so Will thinks it's a yes. (It should be terrifying, but right now it isn't.)

Right now he lets Hannibal step in close and do the simple, but indulgent task of helping him with his coat. It's still a little strange to be allowing it, but it feels fucking nice. It's something Will could get used to. This close, the task still feels charged. Maybe it's just Hannibal and his damnable appeal. Hannibal is sure and practiced, like he's been fucking unzipping and taking coats off companions for _years_ (which Will knows is the case).

Right now, Will isn't even jealous. The confidence is hot and he doesn't care if that's weird. There's weirder shit to get off on. Like foot fetishes or being tickled. Nope, not for him.

Hannibal's gentle touch to his cheek has him out of his head and following instructions to remove his boots. He lets himself be lead in his own house (weird, but whatever) and Will takes a seat. The last person to be in his home had been Alana. But now Hannibal is pretty much making himself at home and getting a dish and pulling out something that smells good. A bowl is placed in front of him. More comfort food. It's thoughtful and he appreciates it. Will grabs a spoon and digs in. Venison stew. Hannibal forgoes the details. Will doesn't exactly care about the ingredients, but he knows Hannibal would be able to quickly recite them if he had. 

After he swallows a few savory bites, Will glances up at Hannibal. "No, this is more than enough. Really. I'd say I'm touched if that phrase didn't seem so goddamn sentimental," Will quirks a quick smile before taking another spoonful. "If you're hungry, please eat. Or thirsty. I'm afraid my booze collection is nothing like yours, but the cupboard next to the fridge has some whiskey. I wouldn't mind a glass."

* * *

There's something quite satisfying about the sight of Will relaxing under his touch. Hannibal's eyes are bright as he watches Will immediately dig into his food. There's less elegance in the safety of his home, but Hannibal cares little about the elegance of eating dinner like this. Will's pallor is pale, his skin looking a little grey even in the warmer lighting. There are bags under his eyes, albeit small ones, and he looks like he could do with some honest relaxation. Hannibal has to wonder just how often Will indulges himself, which immediately makes him wonder whether or not Will would have simply fed his dogs and gone to bed had he arrived home alone. While Hannibal is hardly a paragon of health, or even an advocate of it (particularly given his _real_ nature), he can't help but think unfavorably on the idea.

He'd carefully fixed a few of Matthew's habits when they'd been working together, inviting him to dine, to partake. He'd made Matthew's palate richer and had softened his rougher edges before the end. Somehow he feels like Will Graham will be more work, but he also finds himself almost looking forward to the challenge. So he doesn't reprimand Will for eating enthusiastically (he looks pleased, almost warm, and it makes Hannibal almost smile) and he doesn't resist the invitation to join Will. 

Even so, when Will mentions that he wouldn't mind a glass of his whiskey, Hannibal pretends not to notice that the request had been phrased as a mild manipulation. He doubts Will had even noticed how plaintive the request had been, how coercive. Hannibal is proud, and when he ducks his head in understanding, he turns around to grab two glasses and then wanders over to the cupboard in question. 

Hannibal inwardly cringes at the sight of such _cheap_ alcohol, but he still pours Will a generous few fingers, and a few for himself. He knows what his next gift might feasibly be, at any rate. So, pretending not to notice the wrapped gift on the counter, Hannibal carries both glasses back over to the table. He sets Will's glass down in front of him, and instead of placing his glass on the _other_ side of the table, Hannibal sets it down next to Will. Then he goes to retrieve a bowl for himself.

Hannibal doesn't wash his hands, or find a napkin. Like this, he feels like Will is too exhausted to react properly to a reminder that manners exist. So he merely sits down, and he does what he can to ignore the dogs as they curiously wander up to him. One still sits back, licking at his maw nervously, but there's a small Jack Russell Terrier that seems very intent on snuffling around Hannibal's pockets. Hannibal doesn't glare. He allows it. He _could_ lash out spiritually, but somehow he feels like Will might not approve of anyone his dogs don't like.

"You're allowed to be touched by someone caring about you, Will. I'll not read too deeply into it. English can be a very limiting language by times." Hannibal's smile is warm. He takes a bite of the stew, humming a soft note of satisfaction at the flavor. "You have a very comfortable home. It suits you," Hannibal says, polite. "And your dogs are quite the pack. May I ask... who is this?"

Hannibal lifts one leg slightly when the dog darts between them and snuffles at the floor, then rears up to try and bump Hannibal's hand. It's something he likely wouldn't dare to do to Will. "He was quite adamant upon being fed. They all were, but this one is rather... enthusiastic."

* * *

Hannibal had offered to get him a drink so Will doesn't say please. Brand and quality don't matter when he's drinking to dull things, to dial his head back or to try and escape. So, it's not great whiskey, but it'll do. Hannibal isn't with him for his tastes. In the back of mind, Will's aware that he likely should have washed his hands. Maybe even changed, but shit, he's hungry and Hannibal is here, and manners can be damned right now. 

The stew tastes good, Will's glad to be back home and amidst his dogs. The environment is safe and familiar and although Hannibal's presence shakes things up, it's a gentle variation that he’s okay with. 

Hannibal, somehow, seems at home in his home. Like he isn't some judgmental asshole even though Will knows his shit isn't up to Hannibal's standards. The whiskey won't be nearly as good as the scotch that Hannibal had provided him on Friday, but Hannibal doesn't make any comment about it. Hannibal won't. Will's sure in his read of Hannibal. Hannibal may like the fine and pristine, but Will is worth the inconvenience. Will takes a large sip and watches Hannibal retrieve a bowl and dish out some of the stew for him. 

He also observes how Hannibal deals with his dogs, if there's any signs of dislike or irritation. While he's sure Hannibal isn't the type to own pets or want them, Hannibal doesn't look bothered. Winston is reserved, but Winston is the newest and always a little wary. Will understands how intimidating strangers can be, the threat of the unknown. Buster is the bravest, showing spirit and being quite insistent with his curiousness toward Hannibal. Normally Will wouldn't stand for them gathering around the table, but he's happy to see them showing interest in Hannibal. It's probably lame, but they are his family and their approval of Hannibal _is_ important to him. 

"Enthusiastic? Yeah, that's a word for it," Will replies, smiling, his guard down. The whiskey and stew and company all helping ease him greatly. This isn't a bad way to end a shitty day, not by any means. "He's Buster. The shy one is Winston. Then there's Max, Ellie, Zoe with the underbite, Harley and this Jack - no relation to _Jack_ , of course." While he gives out the names he points at each corresponding dog. 

"There won't be a quiz if you forget."

* * *

The names are a lot to remember but Hannibal makes an effort. As he eats the stew and sips at the whiskey, he silently files away all the names of Will's dogs. He eyes the enthusiastic one - Buster apparently - and while it takes him a few moments to time the enthusiastic wiggling and jumping about, Hannibal reaches a hand down and eventually gets a few small licks to his fingers. He doesn't necessarily enjoy them - he'll need to wash his hands before long, and he doesn't want Will noticing - but the look of pleasure in Will's eyes more than makes up for _his_ displeasure. 

One by one, the dogs (minus Winston) come to greet him. Hannibal asks questions; he's attentive. He pays attention as Will speaks, and he files away the stories he's told as he uses Will's home and the company of the dogs to bring Will's stress level down. 

He learns about how Will had rescued Zoe from a vet when her owner had surrendered her on account of her looks. He learns about how Will had found Winston, how he'd been nothing but a silent companion to Will during the roughest months of his life. He learns that Will had named Jack before meeting the _real_ Jack Crawford. All in all, while they're topics that Hannibal doesn't particularly care about, he listens, and he remains attentive as Will speaks.

When dinner is finished, Hannibal refuses Will's offer to help clean up. Instead, he nods to the dogs with a small, polite smile, and tells Will to care for them and relax. Will looks reluctant, so Hannibal insists, and eventually Will gives in. So Hannibal takes the dishes and the glasses to the sink, and before he washes the dishes, he also washes his hands, cleaning them from the dog saliva and dander that is most assuredly lingering on them. 

Hannibal eyes the gift on the counter, thoughtful, but in the end, he doesn't draw attention to it. Hannibal needs no praise; if Will wears the cologne, that will be enough for him.

He finds Will a few minutes later in the living room, the dogs all spread out and relaxed. Hannibal eyes Winston first, who seems perfectly content in Will's presence. He's quiet as he looks at each dog, from their sleepy, relaxed bodies to the adoring way they look to their master. 

The sight makes Hannibal wish to smile, not because he approves of keeping pets like this, but because they embody what he wishes to see in Will Graham one day. And as he watches them, it's their relaxation that finally points out just how _tense_ Will looks by comparison. It's enough to make the amusement in Hannibal's eyes fade to something almost contemplative. While the dogs are relaxed and pleased, Will looks pleased, but there's something haunted and tense in his shoulders. 

Hannibal considers possibilities for all of a few seconds. Then he excuses himself with a promise to return. 

Walking to the Bentley, Hannibal unlocks his car and leans over to the glove compartment, withdrawing a small bottle that he's rather pleased he has on his person. Perhaps it's not perfect, but without shopping for it specifically, it will do.

He walks back inside with the bottle in hand, and when Will catches sight of it, Hannibal speaks quickly - before Will can infer a _different_ meaning. 

"If you object to this, you're allowed to say no, but I'd like you to strip down for me. You may leave your boxers on, but I'd like you to lay down on your bed - on your stomach. I don't need to touch you to feel how rigid your shoulders are, to see the tension in your body." 

Hannibal lifts the bottle, quickly showing it as nothing but jojoba oil - a bottle he keeps for his hands during the winter. 

"You've had a long day, Will. Massage can be very therapeutic. Lay down for me."

* * *

This _is_ a good way to end a shitty day. Sure, the atmosphere may be lacking to do any proper hosting of a guest, but Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. It may be out of the norm for him but Will is finding that he actually likes the company. He's used to his pack of dogs, and while he does talk to them (and himself by times), having another _human_ to share things with is enjoyable. Will knows it's not just _any_ human, but this one in particular. Hannibal Lecter. 

It still seems crazy that he could luck out like this, but Will is going to try to not be neurotic about it. Hannibal is polite and engaging. Will gladly talks about his dogs. Like this, after the driving, the cold, the case, the blood, the lightness of the conversation is fucking welcome. While Will _knows_ Hannibal isn't exactly interested in his dogs, he doesn't stop. Hannibal is interested in _him,_ so by proxy Hannibal needs to be able to tolerate the dogs.

And tolerate the dogs, he does. Each of them, save for Winston, do come over and smell Hannibal. It's honestly endearing. As he drinks and eats, Will does feel better. The tension lessens and he decides that it's fine to give up some control and let Hannibal clean up. He goes to the living room and calls the dogs over for them to get out of the way for Hannibal. Settling in an old armchair, Will feels himself smile at the dogs. 

"So, can I keep him?" He whisper-asks Winston. Winston, predictably, blinks at him and lies down in his favorite dog bed. Will is going to take that as a yes.

Hannibal returns a little while later, but then is going out to his car to grab something. He returns again and it's with some damn bottle in his hand that Will is immediately thinking is expensive lube or something, but Hannibal clarifies quickly his intent: a massage. 

But he wants him to strip down to his boxers... it makes sense, but Will still feels heat come to his face. It's really a nice offer. A _massage_? Upon thinking about it, Will realizes he does feel rather tense and he does want Hannibal to touch him...

"Uh, sure? Thanks," he mumbles as he stands. 

Will licks his lips as if needing to do one last nervous thing before his hands comply and he begins undressing. He holds no strong feeling about his body. Will feels he's mostly average in this regard, nothing special, nothing bad. He strips quickly, making no show of it, but also not catching Hannibal's eye in the process. He's not feeling that bold or flirty right now. Will bends over and collects the discarded clothing, putting it into a hamper before he crawls onto his bed, laying down on his stomach. He looks over his shoulder to Hannibal.

"Okay. Guess I'm good." 

* * *

This is Hannibal being bold, but he hardly cares. Will looks appropriately shocked, and the sight of him looking so surprised is rather endearing. Yet this is not a joke, nor something that Hannibal is doing just to make Will uncomfortable (though he is quite taken by Will's brief look of uncertainty, by the sudden warm flush that joins his cheeks, mingling pleasantly with the flush of the alcohol in Will's blood). 

So when Will stands and agrees (not that it had been a request), Hannibal politely averts his eyes until he realizes that Will isn't looking at him. It does afford him a brief moral dilemma, but in the end, Hannibal decides to allow himself to indulge. He glances at Will and watches as Will quickly undresses, as he makes no fanfare about it. His shirt and undershirt both come off and so do his socks and slacks. And, as Will strips down for Hannibal's casual perusal, Hannibal silently finds himself _more_ drawn to this creature.

Will is physically attractive, his shoulders broad, his chest firm, his muscles somewhat defined, and his legs and rear more than shapely. That Will's chest is bare comes as no real surprise; he'd suspected a slightly varied level of testosterone, and seeing Will's body so unlike his own _does_ make warmth settle in Hannibal's chest. He allows himself the very brief, very reckless pleasure of his own imagination, but he silently tucks those thoughts and the resulting arousal away for later. 

That is not what this is. _This_ is about trust, and about building it properly. 

He watches Will bend to collect his clothes and he says nothing. Hannibal remains quiet until Will has lain himself out on his bed in the living room. Only then does Hannibal step over to him, eyeing the long, defined line of Will's back and thighs appreciatively as he sets the bottle down. Hannibal removes his own suit jacket, then rolls up his sleeves. He's aware that he could merely stand beside Will's bed, but why bother? Hannibal is quiet and careful as he eases himself up onto the bed with Will, setting his knees on either side of Will's hips. He doesn't sit back on Will's legs. Instead he straddles him, keeping him positioned. Only then does he reach for the oil.

"You don't allow others to do this to you very often," Hannibal surmises, his tone warm but not teasing. 

He wishes Will at ease, not humiliated. Hannibal pours oil out onto his palms, rubbing them together slowly before he reaches down to set his hands on Will's shoulders. He does little more than spread the oil around, his hands sure, each touch aimed to find the knots in Will's back (there are a _lot_ ) and take note of them for later. 

"If ever. You're free to make noise if you like. You're free to remain quiet, or to talk. I expect nothing from you but your relaxation."

It's the only instruction that Hannibal gives before he reaches again for the oil. When he returns his hands to Will's skin, Hannibal targets the largest knots just below Will's neck, down his back, between his shoulder-blades. His palms are warm but he does dig in with the heel of his hands, pressing in, rubbing Will's back in slow, fluid motions that likely sting slightly, until he feels the knot begin to go away. He's careful and gentle, pressure ranging from deep to surface, just rubbing to draw blood to the knots.. 

"Once the worst of the knots are free, I'll work on the actual massage," Hannibal explains, pressing his thumbs in against either side of Will's spine to massage a slight misalignment back in place. 

"You've been tense these past few days. Sore, I would imagine. In your back, in your neck, low along your hips... Were I still officially a doctor, I might write you a prescription for massage therapy. But I suppose it would be easier on your wallet for you to simply come to me."

There's a small smile in Hannibal's voice, welcoming, almost teasing, his hands sliding slow and warm over Will's skin, the knots of tension breaking up under his touch.

* * *

Will can remember the last time he had a massage. It had been for physical therapy purposes after being stabbed and it hadn't been relaxing in the least. It had been awkward being touched by a stranger, but he had grit his teeth and bore it. Of course, he hadn't really stuck with the rehabilitation regime which resulted in stiffness and needing to use the Weaver Stance while using a firearm.

Will has no idea how he's supposed to relax with him exposed as he is. He hears the sound of clothes ruffling and Will assumes Hannibal is taking off the suit jacket and rolling his sleeves up. Will doesn't look back to check; he's afraid of what expression would be on his face if he met Hannibal's eyes. He can't help but tense as Hannibal delicately climbs over him. It's not supposed to be sexual, but Will takes an involuntary sharp intake of breath at Hannibal's knees framing his hips and effectively pinning him to the mattress. Hannibal hovers though, he doesn't ease back to sit on his ass or thighs (which Will would have totally been okay with).

Trying to relax and not make this sexual, Will closes his eyes and breathes deep. When Hannibal comments on him not allowing others to do this for him, Will snorts softly, murmuring a, "no shit" out. 

He's given a few massages. Will likes seeing and feeling the enjoyment of his partner relaxing under his touch. Getting a massage in return hadn't been on his mind. He doesn't normally like being touched a lot, at least non-sexually. Until Hannibal, that is.

Will makes a sound of affirmation that he's heard Hannibal - that he's allowed to talk or not, to make sounds or not. Initially, Will doesn't plan on making any sounds, thank you very much, but he then remembers Hannibal _likes_ his expressions so Will decides to not attempt to stifle any if the need arises. The application of the oil is nice, a little cool, but it warms up quickly from Hannibal's hands.

Speaking of Hannibal's hands, they're not especially gentle. Will hisses at the discomfort, but he knows Hannibal is right. He does have knots and he understands that they must be worked out before any relaxation can be indulged in. Will doesn't complain. On the plus side, the slight sting helps curb any arousal. 

' _You've been tense these past few days. Sore, I would imagine. In your back, in your neck, low along your hips... '_

The last words - low along your hips - sound far too good. Will would like Hannibal to fucking know him intimately there, to touch not only with his hands--

But when Hannibal mentions easing his wallet by offering massage, Will's mouth is opening to retort, "I have insurance, you know. I may live humbly, but I'm not poor. I don't need your charity."

A beat later, he realizes how fucking defensive he's being. "... Sorry. Still not used to this." Will sighs, trying to let the frustration out. "This is nice, really."

* * *

Hannibal hasn't done this for many other people, but those he has decided to assist like this are always fascinating. It's a treat to see the play of emotion, to see the uncomfortable, uncertain expressions one moment and the relaxed, blissed-out expressions later. Some of them get defensive and awkward and others just melt into it. Hannibal suspects that he knows which Will is going to be and so when Will's response is nothing but defensive and sharp, Hannibal only stills his hands for a moment before he resumes. Luckily for Will, it doesn't take him long to realize how rude his response had been, and Hannibal is quite pleased to hear the apology that follows. 

His posture relaxes then, and some of the tension bleeds from his own shoulders as he smooths his hands down Will's back in slow, patient strokes, from below one shoulder-blade, to just above Will's hips. 

"It's quite all right, Will. Perhaps I shouldn't have suggested this so soon, but I can no more set aside my training than you can ignore those whispers of impulse about people you see on the street. I saw your pain, your stiffness, and I'm aware of how to alleviate it. This isn't charity. This isn't a comment about your financial status. This..." Hannibal considers, and works his fingers around Will's lumbar spine, testing each bone. "This is indulgence. For you, but also for me. I get to alleviate your pain while also seeing you like this, _touching_ you like this."

Hannibal trails off, letting the implication speak for itself. His hands move up and then down again in a slow slide, and when he eases himself down on the bed to sit back on his heels, it's so that he can pour more oil out onto his hands and then reach down for Will's calves. Hannibal works them one at a time, digging his fingers into the meat of the muscle slowly to find any more knots. From this angle, Hannibal has quite a pleasant view of the whole of Will's back, from his calves all the way up to his shoulders. 

He digs his thumbs into a slightly tender knot, but this one he works out slowly, stroking his thumbs in slow, delicate circles before he moves to the other calf to target the knots. Bit by bit, Hannibal undoes the worst of the tension, and only once Will's muscles are no longer seized with overcompensation does Hannibal delicately spill a little oil onto Will's calves and go in _properly_.

The motions change immediately. What had been somewhat clinical passes of Hannibal's hands soften to careful, more sensual touches. Hannibal's hands move slowly, working the aching muscles on Will's calves slowly. One hand passes over the other as he strokes down, from the top of Will's thigh all the way down to his ankle. Hannibal is mindful not to pay Will's feet too much attention (he suspects Will might be shy) but by the time Hannibal eases himself back up on Will's bed and straddles his thighs again, his touch is much gentler and _much_ more sensual.

"I'd like you to breathe deeply for me, Will. Slow, deep, and even. You hardly deserve the tension you've faced, and what you've undoubtedly been through. If you'd like to talk about it, we may, but if you'd like to merely relax, I encourage you to do so. Let me spoil you,"

* * *

Being raised poorer has likely given him a chip on his shoulder. Will's aware. He can be touchy about it, but it's usually seen in his disdain for the way some people clamber for certain brands and actually believe money can buy happiness. The silly notion of trying to keep up with the Jones'. There's enough petty greed in the world. And while Will is open to having Hannibal spoil him (on some level anyway), he doesn't exactly _like_ Hannibal offering to do it if it's inferred that Will can't take care of it himself. Or something. Maybe it's a pride thing.

Who's he kidding, it's probably a pride thing.

But Will isn't prideful enough to be unable to apologize when he's jumped the gun on something. And he has here. He knows Hannibal isn't interested or attempting to flaunt his wealth. Hannibal had been trying to be helpful is all and Will distinctly doesn't like the guilt that filters in after he's given his apology. 

Despite his slip up, Hannibal doesn't stop. Hannibal continues the massage and eventually responds. Will tries to let his frazzled nerves be soothed by Hannibal being practical. 

It gets harder to relax when he hears, ' _This is indulgence. For you, but also for me. I get to alleviate your pain while also seeing you like this, **touching** you like this...' _

Will is opening his mouth to say something - say _anything_ \- but he's got nothing. Which isn't normal for him, but Hannibal is moving down on the bed and then smooth, slick hands are working on his calves which has Will groaning. He hadn't expected Hannibal to work on his legs. Of course it doesn't _start_ nice, doesn't feel nice, but there's an appeal to the ache, to the tenderness that Hannibal's strong and skilled hands bring out. 

It becomes quickly apparent when Hannibal has moved on from the more clinical touches to something much nicer and inherently more intimate. Will still feels it, it's not too gentle, but fingers and heels of hands no longer dig into sore muscles with such precision. Will sighs, giving up on trying to search for something to say. It simply feels _good_ to be touched and indulged by Hannibal. When Hannibal's hands slide higher up his thighs, Will can't help but shiver. Thighs are more intimate than calves or ankles or shoulders. His mind is immediately thinking of how far this massage could go. Boxers slipped off, Hannibal's hands getting to know him even more...

It's when Hannibal once again settles on his thighs that Will registers he's getting a bit of a hard-on. Great. It's difficult to be very disparaging when Hannibal's hands continue and his smooth accented tone and words seek to calm him.

"Uh - it's really - you're really good with your hands," Will comments, breathless. It's a stupid comment, but it can't be helped. This is the most touch he's had in years and it's _Hannibal_ and Hannibal fucking straddling his thighs. 

"It wasn't that bad today - just different," Will goes on. As usual, it's easier to talk about this. "Acts of savagery, no finesse. And-and the shitty realization I'll need to see more to get a better understanding."

* * *

Hannibal finds himself quite pleased over just how responsive Will is under his hands. Perhaps he's not surprised because he's quite aware how touch starved this man is, but it doesn't make him less interested as he catalogs Will's responses. As he basks in the soft groans that fall from Will's lips when Hannibal's hands dig in just right... This is a sensual slide of intimacy and yet he's drawn to it, basking in the touch and that Will is allowing it. 

If Will is contrite about his earlier comment, Hannibal hardly cares. He merely focuses on his task, and by the time he has his hands back on Will's shoulders and feels the tension easing and hears Will's enthusiasm, he hums his own satisfaction. The satisfaction of having had his hands on Will's thighs is quite sharp, and the lingering feeling of his muscles under his hands lingers.

He doesn't need to look to know that Will is becoming aroused. Sexual tension is far preferable to emotional or physical tension, after all, and despite the overwhelming stink of _dog_ in the room, Hannibal quite likes the finer notes of arousal he can just make out. He's not blind to the way Will squirms under his hands, nor is he to the way Will's voice has gone breathless when he finally finds it. Instead Hannibal only smiles, humming his acknowledgement under his breath as his hands stroke in slow, firm glides up and down Will's back, his hands firm and sure but no longer digging. This time he touches Will to relax him, and there's a slow, rhythmic motion he finds before long, centering around the tightness of Will's lower back and the aching spots between his shoulders.

Will is breathless and Hannibal enjoys the sound, but he doesn't respond until Will continues. He knows he's good with his hands, but what he _doesn't_ know is what Will had gone to see. 

"And you're bothered that you need to look again," Hannibal prompts quietly, his voice low, unassuming. He doesn't mock or condemn. Instead he just looks at Will quietly and his hands move up, thumbs working in slow, careful circles along the base of Will's neck. Hannibal focuses there, both because he can feel the tension as well as because he knows it's a smaller, more intimate touch. 

"Why? Is it because the crimes were so bestial, or because you believe you're responsible for the next victims?"

Hannibal's hands smooth over the back of Will's neck. He hesitates for a mere moment and then leans in, his voice soft. "You aren't to be blamed, Will. You cannot divine what is not clear to you. If you harbor any guilt, I ask that you try to dismiss it."

* * *

Will hadn't been exaggerating. Hannibal is damn good with his hands. Will vaguely considers asking if Hannibal has had any formal training or just a lot of practice (which kind of irks him, but there's nothing to do be done about it; it's just petty jealousy that has no place but wants to make an appearance anyway). Will doesn't ask, because it's one of those trivial questions that don't honestly _matter_ that much. And maybe Will is getting used to Hannibal asking him questions and pulling the answers nearly effortlessly out of him. 

Being known, being understood... It's still terrifying and exciting.

So, Will opens up a little about his day, he shares as if they were some normal, ordinary married couple conversing after dinner (what a thought). While it's true that they may be conversing after dinner - catching up, as it is - they are far from ordinary. Hannibal has no interest in the ordinary and Will doesn't care for it either. 

When Hannibal's fingers focus on his neck and he replies, Will's neck lifts slightly into the touch. The massage is rhythmic and soothing, same as Hannibal's tone and words. Will wants to become incredulous that he could ever click with someone like this and so quickly, that Hannibal could _deal_ with him so well, but he's living in this moment where the reality is just that. It's strange, but it's nice. Far too nice, truth be told.

Hannibal asks a difficult question that has Will's eyebrows pulling in. Is he bothered more by the nature of the crime or the knowledge that there will need to be more victims? Will knows the answer. He doesn't especially _like_ the answer. It takes a great deal of willpower to not push back into Hannibal. A part of him would rather focus on the sexual. A pretty big part, in fact.

"I'm pretty desensitized toward the brutality," Will admits quietly. 

He's seen some shit. There's not much that is truly shocking anymore and it had really only been difficult to look when the encephalitis had been raging. At the time, Will had thought he'd been going crazy. But he knows he's ignoring the real problem here. The victims. Guilt. Blame. 

"I don't feel as bothered as I know I should be. I'm simply waiting for another crime scene so I can see and figure something out." 

He sighs and purposefully squirms to feel the drag of his cock against the mattress. "But, um, that's the nature of the game."

* * *

"Who says you should feel bothered?" Hannibal asks immediately, though his tone is low and quiet, still skirting the edge of soothing while also managing to dig his claws into Will's mind without him really noticing. 

Hannibal's hands move slowly and rhythmically, his fingers digging into the sensitive skin of Will's neck and stroking down. He pauses as he feels Will squirming slightly beneath him and the scent of mild arousal once more makes itself known. Hannibal looks down, watching the small shift of Will's hips, and the satisfaction in his eyes is evident.

He presses in just a little more, exploring the facet joints to ensure that none of them are out of place. Then he continues his descent, his voice low and warm, but also somewhat firm. 

"Yes, perhaps someone else must die to lead you in the proper direction, but from the way I am looking at it, many more would die without your insight. The fact that another life must be lost is tragic, but to be honest, Will, my concern is not for the lives of those out there. It's for the life under my hands now. I care about you, and your life. That you believe you should feel guilt for matters outside your control is troubling."

Hannibal eases in closer then, shifting down ever so slightly. He edges down to finally sit back against Will's thighs, feeling the solid warmth of Will's ass against the front of his slacks. It's an intimate position, only advanced by the way Will keeps squirming. With that slight shift of position, it is vaguely sexual even if Hannibal doesn't blatantly state it. Instead he works his hands in slow, smooth passes from Will's shoulders to his lower back, then slides them back up with a slow, twisting motion to truly relax and spread the muscles for proper blood flow. 

"You are doing everything in your power and then some. I can feel how tight your muscles are under my hands. I can feel the way you've knotted. You're running yourself ragged. I suspect that had I not been here, you'd have fed your dogs but not yourself. I know it goes against your nature to care for yourself, but it's what I feel you must do. Until then," Hannibal's head tilts just a little and there's a flicker of calculated interest in his eyes as he presses Will's weight down against the mattress, enough to undoubtedly put a little more pressure on his cock. 

"I will care for you in your stead. Do you feel good?" 

* * *

Will knows what type of response Hannibal is going to give. It's going to involve it not being his fault. That he shouldn't feel responsible or blame himself for not being able to piece things together after one crime scene. That he's trying his best... But it's actually difficult to be self-deprecating as Hannibal's hands work to relax him. There's also the edge of arousal and Will knows he's not exactly being sneaky about any of this either. 

Does he care? Not really0.

The question is rhetorical. Who says he should feel bothered? His conscience, Will assumes. Society. Jack. Good people who care about the lives of others. It gets difficult to really care when Hannibal settles against his thighs. Will's immediately aware that Hannibal's dick is rather close to his ass. He's not supposed to be thinking about fucking right now, but he's been touched so much tonight, Hannibal's hands sliding smoothly over his body, relaxing and exciting him in equal measure. 

Hannibal's right, of course. Hannibal is often right and it should be annoying, but it's not. Many more would die if he didn't try. Hadn't that been Jack's big reason to get him to keep working. Because he's saving lives.

_'--my concern is not for the lives of those out there. It's for the life under my hands now. I care about you, and your life.'_

While it probably should come as no surprise, it still does. He's never thought much about himself, or rather, been focused on his wellness or whatever. He's nothing special. If he can help, he should. It makes sense to Will. Whether or not he’s destroyed him in the process... It doesn't matter.

(But it matters to Hannibal, apparently.)

Will can't help the warmth that spreads through him from the thought. He pushes his hips down again. The friction is only a tease, but the hint of pleasure makes it easier to deal with Hannibal pointing out his inadequacy in caring for himself. It's never a good thing to fail at, but Will finds that he can't refute it. 

Hannibal takes it a little further by purposefully pressing him into the mattress - taking a more active role in acknowledging Will's state. Will groans, eyes squeezing shut tighter. It takes him a moment to respond.

"I feel good," he murmurs shakily. He's not going to comment on Hannibal's care. "Falling down the rabbit hole, maybe. I bet you have a pocket watch somewhere, don't you Hannibal?" 

Will laughs softly to himself. In this state of relaxation and arousal, it's easy to let his mind get away. 

"By the way, I _did_ think of you that night."

* * *

This is a step beyond what he had allowed when they'd last met, but Hannibal cannot find it in himself to be cautious. He's not touching Will, he's not pushing. Like this, with a blanket of intimacy spread out between them and Will's muscles slowly unknotting under his hands, Hannibal cannot claim to be unaffected, but he is not taking an active role either. 

His hands are touching miles of warm, exposed skin, but there is a disconnect there still. While he knows Will is aroused - he can feel the slow slide of Will's hips, can hear his sighs, and can hear his groan when Hannibal presses him closer to the mattress - he is not touching, nor is he actively encouraging. Will's pleasure belongs to Will. That Hannibal is witnessing it and stoking it with his presence is not his doing.

His hands slide slow and firm over Will's back, pressing harder, less a glide and more of a deep drag against Will's muscles. Hannibal does it to experiment, to test how Will responds to a more crushing pressure, and he's silently pleased with the softer groan it elicits. It offers him many thoughts, racks the tension between them higher, but he does nothing overt. His hands press to Will's shoulders and he eases in closer, massaging residual knots away from the worst of the tension as he feels Will's soft squirming beneath him. 

' _I feel good_ ,' Will breathes, and Hannibal smiles with his eyes. 

He can tell. But when Will goes on to detail a _pocket watch_ and Hannibal thinks of the gift still resting on his kitchen table back home, he cannot stop a small breath of a laugh. It's hidden in a low sigh, one that indicates the effort of the massage as well as a gathering of pleasant tension in his own skin. He eases closer, pressing half-flush to Will's body, and when Hannibal works his hands over Will's shoulders, it's slow and deep, a rhythmic massage as he watches the intriguing way Will goes lax and yet still squirms for more. A paradox, this man.

"You'll have to be more specific," Hannibal says lowly, carefully. "When you called me first, after we hung up? Or do you mean that evening, after you returned home?" 

Hannibal's thumbs find the sensitive edge of Will's rhomboid and he traces it, digging slow and careful. 

"I _do_ regret not taking care of you myself, but I hope you'll understand when I reiterate that I believe you are worth more than a single drunken encounter. I believe that part of spoiling someone involves building up _anticipation_..." 

Hannibal wets his lips. Then he leans in, not nearly enough to be outwardly sexual, but enough to denote interest. 

"How did you feel when you thought of me, Will? Good?"

* * *

Hannibal may not actively be doing anything explicit, may not be touching him explicitly, but in allowing Will to act like this - to rub his hips and express his pleasure - Will feels encouraged. Emboldened, maybe. Oh, a part of him - later - may feel properly embarrassed by all of this, at least regret doing this, but Will doesn't right now. He doesn't care if he's behaving like a slut. There's nothing wrong with slutty. They're both adults. They're both consenting.

He remembers Hannibal confirming that he would enjoy watching or hearing him. Will had offered that on the couch. Of course, he's never done anything like this before. He's never debased himself so willingly, so enthusiastically, but Hannibal is a treat, isn't he? Will is going to indulge. He'll enjoy the glorious glide of slick hands over his skin, he'll keep his eyes closed and let himself be expressive.

And apparently he'll bring up the other night. Hannibal had told him to think of him and Will fucking had until he came in his bed and over his hand. 

Hannibal responds, first being coy and asking him to be more specific, but Will knows that he knows. Because then Hannibal goes on, mentioning anticipation and Will feels like he's been waiting for _years_ when it's only been days. When Hannibal leans in, the weight on top of him makes it more difficult to rub himself against the mattress, but Will doesn't mind. It's kind of comforting in a way.

' _How did you feel when you thought of me, Will? Good?'_

"Yeah, really good,"Will answers, voice ragged with arousal. 

He feels hot and sweaty and while it's a little weird that Hannibal is still so damned clothed, he kind of likes it. He can't help but want Hannibal to come in his pants or for Will to come over him...

But he decides to share what he'd thought of that night.

"Instead of opening the door and seeing me out, I imagined you slowly undoing my belt and fly and taking my dick out. You pushed me-pushed me against the door, with me facing it, and you were behind me, only leaving enough room for your arm to reach around and jerk me off." Will shudders at the memory. 

"Grinding my ass back into you, I could feel-feel how hard you were." Will tries to emulate the act, desperate for more contact, for anything. 

"Fuck, _please_. You don't want me to stop, do you?"

* * *

The first thing that Hannibal notices is that when he leans in and presses Will closer to his mattress, the scent of arousal increases. It's a sudden spike, a direct correlation, and he hums a soft note of satisfaction in the back of his throat, something lowly pleased. This is one thing that Hannibal hasn't dismissed over the years; he quite enjoys it when others desire him, and experiencing it so close - with Will's muscles softer and relaxed under him, his body all but pliant - is a silent boost to his ego. 

Will stays relaxed. He doesn't fight Hannibal's new proximity, instead allowing Hannibal to continue a slow massage as he turns his attention to Will's arms, the rise of each bicep and the corded muscle of his forearms. It's a flimsy excuse for the change in position, but Hannibal doesn't wish Will to go without a mobile touch for long. He doesn't want Will to grow accustomed to anything.

He speaks softly and Will's response is low and ragged and lazy. His voice has dropped an octave, his arousal evident. Hannibal can scent it on the air like the undercurrent to a particularly enticing cologne, something with a musky curl to ensnare the senses. He normally finds the scent of arousal tiring, but when he's worked for it, when it exists because of _him_ , he quite enjoys it. 

Hannibal's smile is all in his eyes still, though it narrows to a somewhat smug expression of satisfaction. A cat with a mouse caught in its claws. His hands work at Will's arms slowly, touching around the rise of his deltoid and sliding back down again.

The scent of Will's sweat is a low distraction, present but not unpleasant. Hannibal muses over it for a moment before deciding that he quite likes it. So he remains where he is, and when Will begins to not only tell Hannibal how he'd felt that evening, but begins to actually _detail_ his fantasy, something low and hot slides under Hannibal's skin. He listens intently, looking down at Will and picturing the scene in question. 

He hums, a low sound of contentment, and his touch to Will's arms softens into a slower slide as Will's voice lowers further. Each breath, each stutter is exquisite. He feels Will shudder, feels the way he begins to squirm, like he's trying to press himself back as he had in his fantasy. Hannibal wets his lips, and he cannot deny that there is a low curl of arousal sliding down, filling out a solid line of pleasant-but-easily-dismissed arousal in his slacks. 

Will presses back against it, and Hannibal knows he _could_ press against Will, but he doesn't. 

Instead he leans down further, enough to begin to press his chest to Will's back. Oil and sweat seeps through Hannibal's shirt and he'll undoubtedly question the intelligence of this later, but for now, he quite enjoys it. That Will's fantasy is so closely in line with something he would have done is... thrilling. 

"I cannot claim that I wasn't tempted to do exactly that," Hannibal says softly, his voice a low murmur against the shell of Will's ear. "You were pure temptation. You _are_. No, Will. I don't want you to stop, particularly if this is grounding you. I can feel that you've relaxed. Despite your need, your muscles are not as tense, nor do you sound as distressed." 

Hannibal leans into him, intentionally pressing Will down now, his hands loose on Will's wrists.

"There is quite a bit of evidence that a mild, overall pressure can calm anxiety and induce a sensation of security. From weighted blankets to a large dog - which you're likely familiar with - it calms the mind as well as the body. But I believe, perhaps, there is more to this desire of yours. You wish me to hold you against the wall, to brace you and touch you as I desire. You wish to feel contained, but might you also be craving the lack of control?" 

Hannibal's smile softens. 

"Continue, Will." 

* * *

Skilled hands glide over his arms, massaging lightly and keeping him guessing. He's been touched in many places, but Will still wants more. He wants Hannibal's hands to touch him everywhere, even non-sexually. The places that he would never think to allow someone to touch, or to even _want_ to be touched. His armpit. His knee. Behind his ear. Down his sternum. To kiss along the somewhat ticklish bones of his ankle. 

He wants Hannibal's fingers to probe his mouth, to sweep against his tongue and make him gag just to feel and know that Hannibal can play his body. Will wants to lick at Hannibal's teeth, to feel incisors and canines. He wants to claw at Hannibal's layers of clothing until he shreds them. 

But more than anything, Will longs to get swept up in the storm.

Fuck. He's very hard. Cock trapped in his boxers and against the mattress. It dawns on him that Hannibal is pinning him now. Also, Hannibal isn't soft. But Hannibal does nothing to make it overly evident. Hannibal doesn't push against him and like this, with Hannibal nearly folded over him, it's difficult to get much leverage to grind back like he had in his fantasy. 

Will does his best to squirm into Hannibal's body, to make his enthusiasm even more evident. Hannibal's mouth is by his ear and his voice is soft and silken and Will licks his lips, completely spellbound by Hannibal. In this moment, he’s hanging onto every word Hannibal murmurs to him. 

The allowance may be under the guise of therapy - of helping him - that pressure can help with anxiety, but Will knows this is a part of the game. Hannibal wouldn't want to think of this as merely a sexual thing. That'd be too crass. It hadn't started with that intent. This way, if they ever reference this in the future they can be tongue-in-cheek. Hannibal would like that kind of thing. 

_'You wish me to hold you against the wall, to brace you and touch you as I desire. You wish to feel contained, but might you also be craving the lack of control?'_

A whined out "yeah, yes" is heard in response. Will's hands clench into fists. His heart pounds in his chest. While the pressure both contains him - adding to a sense of security - it's also frustrating because Hannibal isn't doing anything _but_ laying over him. Will grunts, shoving his hips up to try and rub against Hannibal's crotch, but they're not lined up right.

"Fuck," he grits out in defeat, eyes opening and narrowing. Instead, he returns to rub his erection into the mattress. It lacks any finesse, yeah, but it's something. (It's barely anything, but he'll take it. He'll gladly take it.) 

"God, I want you to fuck me, Hannibal," Will admits. 

"Want you to push me down and just take, just rip my pants down, not even... not even undress me. You could... bind my wrists with one of your ties." 

* * *

Will Graham is officially dangerous. Hannibal watches the picture he makes, watches as the ends of his hair begin to curl with heat and humidity and sweat as Will works himself up further. Hannibal can feel the mild tremor in Will's body, can feel the way he responds to what Hannibal says. He can scent Will's desire as easily as he can read it in the long line of his body, but Hannibal is not inclined to give Will what he wants when the alternative is so captivating. 

He can feel the ache in Will's body like it's coming from his own skin, can feel the buzz of desperation crackling over his skin like electricity, and Hannibal wishes to chase that feeling, to dip his consciousness beneath the surface, to own, to _possess_. He feels it when Will begins to squirm, trying to roll his hips back. Hannibal feels the unpracticed drag against the front of his slacks; he knows what Will is _trying_ to do, but so too does he know how to hold himself to give Will no leverage.

Such a thrilling man, starved for attention and affection, his desires buried so deep that the mere possibility of letting them out has Will shaking. Hannibal can only imagine that it's like putting pressure on a wound, trying to maintain it on your own, only for another to come by and take over. The relief is similar, knowing that the issue is being taken care of. _That_ , he thinks, is what Will Graham truly craves. He aches for darkness and meaning, but he also aches for the peace that comes from a quiet, contained mind and body. How tightly Hannibal could lace up his mind, a mental corset, adorned and appealing and firm, unwavering. He could twist Will into that. Perhaps he will.

...But not now. _Now_ Hannibal listens to Will whine, feels him squirm, and basks in the pounding of Will's heart that he can feel through Will's back. Hannibal lifts his hips just a little, silently denying Will the desperate desire to move. The result is almost instant, whether Will realizes it or not. As soon as he's denied, he goes limp, and then shifts, doing what he can to instead focus on his own pleasure. Hannibal rumbles a soft sound of satisfaction in the back of his throat, and as tempting as it would be to rut against Will's ass until he's streaked him with come, Hannibal denies himself. 

He watches Will instead, touches him, in slow, languid slides from his wrists all the way down to his sides, before he repeats the motion. Yet not even he is entirely stoic.

' _God, I want you to fuck me, Hannibal,'_ is almost enough to break him. Hannibal stills and breathes in a little sharper, feeling the desperate squirm under him. He's quite aware that he could do precisely what Will is asking for. He could _take_ , could _own_. But again, it would almost seem a waste...

"Would you like to be bound, Will?" Hannibal asks, warm enough that Will can hear how affected he is, but detached enough that he sounds legitimately curious. 

Leaning in a little more, his chest pressed flush to Will's back, Hannibal considers the moment, weighing his options. Then he slides his hands back to his own throat. Hannibal is quiet as he undoes the navy-blue patterned tie from around his neck, testing the silk. Then he reaches down and guides Will's hands closer, moving them ever so slightly above his head - not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to draw his wrists crossed. Only then does Hannibal begin, winding his tie delicately around Will's wrists. He doesn't rush, doesn't push. He just lets it happen, the trail of silk almost sensual over Will's skin as Hannibal ties it just tight enough to work. Then he slides his hands back down against the sensitive undersides of Will's arms, down his sides.

"One day, I will give you what you want," he says lowly, murmuring into Will's ear close enough that his lips almost graze Will's skin. "I'll enjoy it. I can only imagine how stunning you would be in your need, your abandon. You test my control like no other, but so too must you test your own. So desperate to take charge of your own situation, to wrestle your control back from me... I don't believe I'll let you have it. For now, it belongs to me. _Relax_ , Will. Breathe. Focus on every point of contact where we are touching. You've had a long, stressful day... let me help."

* * *

Will doesn't even bottom a lot. Not frequently at least. Spreading his legs for a one night stand is placing a lot of trust in his partner. Hand jobs and blow jobs are easier. No fuss, straightforward, and still a bit of touch. Him being on top is safer because he's in control and knows he will take the proper precautions. Will is careful with preparation, he's not an idiot. Not all guys are. 

But Will knows Hannibal would be careful. Hannibal who is a fucking doctor, with the skilled hands that have gently touched him, steadied his own hand in the kitchen. Hands that have worked out knots, brought relaxation and also teased him into a frenzy this evening.

Hannibal is right. There is an appeal to giving up control, if only for a little bit. Giving some control _to_ Hannibal, that is. Will isn't interested in just anyone. But Will does want Hannibal to fuck him. He wants to really feel it, to ache the next day. To take a chance and trust.

And Will also wants Hannibal to tie him up... He's not necessary surprised or scandalized by such a desire. A little bondage is hardly that kinky nowadays. (A part him wants to be wary, because of everything he's seen. Victims tied up with tape, gagged--)

_'Would you like to be bound, Will?'_

The question has Will leaving the untasty thoughts far, far behind and focusing on the present. In the present, he can hear how interested and pleased Hannibal is. Will thinks he gasps out an affirmative answer, but it hardly matters because Will stills when Hannibal presses in closer. And then Hannibal's hands stop the massage and reach back and even though he can't hear it, Will fucking knows that Hannibal is taking off his tie. It's confirmed a moment later when Hannibal places his hands closer together in preparation and begins winding the expensive fucking tie around his wrists. 

Maybe he should be scared. After all, he hardly knows Hannibal and Hannibal right now has the upper hand.

He's not.

Will is compliant, breathing quicker, his arousal turning more finicky and desperate as the task is completed and he's bound. He immediately tests the restraints and finds them tight and satisfactory. Hannibal's mouth is so close to his ear that Will almost feels his lips. The words - the fucking _promise_ that Hannibal will one day do it and enjoy it has Will's eyes shutting again. 

_'So desperate to take charge of your own situation, to wrestle your control back from me... I don't believe I'll let you have it. For now, it belongs to me.'_

Will arches into Hannibal, his wrists test his bonds again. He's secure. He's sweaty and slick and he knows the oil is getting on Hannibal's clothing, but he likes it. He likes that he's going to at least leave a stain on Hannibal. 

"It's a little hard to relax when you're-when you're letting me act out a fantasy," Will retorts, but there's no real heat behind his words. He breathes deep anyway. He focuses on the weight of Hannibal on top of him. 

"Want you... to help." 

* * *

This is far more than Hannibal had expected upon coming to visit Will. While Hannibal hadn't had any concrete plans, even he is somewhat surprised by how far this has gone. Yet instead of being uncertain, Hannibal feels only a deeper, darker desire to own, to possess. 

He rakes his gaze over Will like a physical touch now that Will can't see him do it, and he admires the relaxed-but-bunching muscles on Will's back. His shoulder-blades are high with the angle of his arms, and the definition of his muscles is nothing short of artful. Hannibal already knows that he'll be committing this image to parchment later on, Will's bound sexuality etched permanently into paper via graphite and charcoal. 

Hannibal tests the silk around Will's wrists only once after Will has done the same. It's tight but not too tight, secure enough to keep him firmly bound but not enough to cut off his circulation. The silk is soft around Will's wrists, the deep blue enough of a contrast to look nothing short of stunning. Hannibal wets his lips and he resists the very real desire to sit back on his heels and just look at Will, to study the image he makes, bound and spread along the sheets. 

He feels it when Will arches against him, desperate, and he feels the low ache of arousal deep within, a pleasant-but-easily-ignored sensation that he acknowledges and then dismisses. It's Will's reactions that spark true interest, from the quickening of his breathing to the way he squirms. Hannibal reaches down, finding one of Will's wrists, and he presses his fingers to the fluttering pulse there, noting how strong it is. His eyebrows lift in silent satisfaction, and when he eases his chest back down against Will's back, Hannibal's answering hum is low and pleased. 

"Your heart is pounding. There _is_ something enticing about being bound, isn't there? Not only the act of having control taken from you, but the trust that must exist to freely give it to another person. You could have fought me, could have denied me my request, but you didn't. You're doing well, Will."

The words are said so softly that they practically skirt across Will's skin, but Hannibal doesn't mind having given them out. He wishes to test, to poke, to prod, to try what he can to see how this man works. He likes being bound. How will he respond to praise? Hannibal's tongue wets his lips. There are so many things he _could_ say, but he knows a few would be unwelcome now. Later, perhaps. 

"Perhaps I'll blindfold you one day," Hannibal says against Will's neck, just barely close enough so that Will can feel the heat of his breath and the scratch of stubble against his skin. 

"Narrowing your senses down to ease you out of your thoughts might be beneficial. So often I believe you live in your own mind, a slave to your own thoughts. While this is hardly therapy, I cannot set aside the desire to help. Take this, for instance. You're not as tense as you were before, minus the arousal you're feeling now."

Hannibal shifts then, bracing himself on one arm as his other hand moves down, trailing over Will's left arm, then down his clavicle. Hannibal does nothing but touch, then presses in enough to begin working the muscles of Will's upper chest. He slides his hand up only a few times to trail over the pounding pulse in his neck, then works a hand under them both. He touches Will's chest, his abdomen, skipping his nipples - though touching around them - and stopping halfway to Will's navel before moving up again, his touch deep and intentional.

* * *

Will is aware that his dogs are still in the room witnessing this. He can hear the few sounds of them shuffling around and settling down, of heads shaking collars when they dart up at a sound he's made. He isn't embarrassed, though. His dogs have been present when he's had hookups with others. It's a part of being a pet owner.

This isn't exactly a hookup, though. This is something more. Something else. It may have started as a massage, but arousal has slid in between the cracks. It's not even _all_ about his dick being hard. Will isn't certain he'll even get off or be _allowed_ to get off for that matter. There's an undercurrent of intimacy here. Of a growing trust. He'd stripped down to his boxers for Hannibal and allowed Hannibal to give him a massage. He's the one that got turned on and started steering them down this road too.

Hannibal's finger works under the silk tie, coming to rest against his pulse. Will knows it's strong and quick. Hannibal's words are entirely too close to the truth. It _is_ enticing to be bound, to have control taken, but also in freely giving it. He _could_ have fought, he _could_ have denied the request, but why would he? He'd thought about it. He'd wanted it. Suggested it. Hannibal had complied. And Will knows Hannibal likes it. Hannibal likes that _he_ likes it.

The praise is warm, soft. Simple. He's doing well. Will thinks he wants to do better than well, but before he can think too much on it, Hannibal goes ahead to mention a damn blindfold and Will stills. He's intrigued. He's never done it, never had one on him or a partner. Of course Hannibal would go on and add in a dash of therapy, a reminder that Hannibal's intention is to help.

Will is opening his mouth to respond but a hand snakes down between his body and the mattress and it's more touch. Will's mouth closes, enjoying the attention and curious if it it will go anywhere sexual. Will Hannibal pinch a nipple? Will Hannibal finally touch his cock? 

The answer is no. 

"I'd let you," Will finally replies. "The blindfold. As much as I want to witness you lose your control - and I'll fucking get that one day - I'd give it up to you." Will groans as he purposefully rubs his cock against the mattress again. He feels hedonistic in this and he doesn't care. Hannibal wants him to do this. 

"It's not... Not in my nature to trust and yet you coax me out, almost as if I was made to be devoured by you." 

* * *

Hannibal is caught by just how responsive a man Will is. It's not just physical responsiveness, but also the way he responds to suggestion. As Hannibal speaks, he witnesses Will's responses - pleasure with praise, anticipation with touch, and a sudden, artful stillness when Hannibal suggests using a blindfold. The stillness is what speaks to him the most, a whisper of promise etched into the line of Will's muscles, into his skin. 

Hannibal doesn't need Will's reaction to know that he likes the idea. His stillness speaks for itself. Perhaps it's _that_ that makes him reach down and trail his hand over Will's skin, teasing but not touching directly, not where Will wants. He avoids anything that could be seen as sexual, digging his fingers in against previously sore muscles and watching with interest as Will's desperation begins to climb even higher.

His response, when it comes, is breathless. Hannibal's pupils blow, and it takes true effort to blink away the hint of red that nearly creeps into the whites of his eyes. At the side of the bed, one of the dogs looks up, his hackles half-raised until Hannibal manages to control himself. Then the dog - Winston, Hannibal remembers - lays his head back down. He's wary, but he's not protesting, and right now, Hannibal hardly spares him more than a thought. It isn't Will's dogs that he's interested in, but Will himself.

And oh, how Will doesn't disappoint. From careful, artful squirming and a nearly-decadent groan of pleasure, to what Will _says_ , Hannibal feels suddenly rapt. He's never had another so taken with the thought of him losing control. Matthew had come close, but it had been surface-level, a desire to mess up his clothes and his hair, to draw sound from his lips, to make him curse. Hannibal suspects that Will wants all that and more. So Hannibal leans into him, feeling the grind of Will's hips as he contemplates whether or not to take it away from him. Such thrilling reactions; he can't help but wonder how Will would look in a more desperate distress as well. 

"Perhaps you were," he says quietly, and there's heat in his voice, a lower roughness that betrays the fact that he is not as unaffected as he'd like to appear. 

"A trusting nature in your line of work is damning. So very easy for those around you to exploit, and yet you open yourself to me so perfectly. You permit me to see you like this, to _watch_..." 

Hannibal wets his lips, and when he leans into Will again, it's with a slow, pointed press, forcing his hips down to let him really feel the drag of friction while knowing that he's only feeling it because Hannibal is _allowing_ it. 

"If only you knew how captivating you look. How thrilling you feel. You were _made_ to be spoiled, Will."

* * *

Will doesn't remember similar words hissed to him in warning during a dream only a few nights ago. He doesn't feel that the threat of being devoured is something to worry on, to fret over. He probably should, there has to be some part of him that is concerned with self-preservation, with being careful and yet it is overridden by indulgence. By want and desire and knowing that Hannibal is aware of all of this and _allowing_ it.

Will doesn't hear or sense anything with his dogs. They fade to the background, blips that don't register to him in this heated moment. He's given himself up to Hannibal's skilled hands and piercing attention. It's indulgence and denial, shared fantasies and touches that aren't nearly enough. But Will craves and wants anyway. He's never been into this denial thing. A little teasing is fine, but this is on another level.

There's a low sultriness to Hannibal's voice, an evident roughness that displays that Hannibal is also into this. Fuck, he likes it. He wants to keep hearing it.

'-- _and yet you open yourself to me so perfectly..._ ' 

A slightly higher pitched whine escapes Will's mouth. The prospect of _opening_ _perfectly_ for Hannibal has his mind screaming ' _fuck me, fuck me_ ' but Will doesn't voice it. He already knows that _that_ won't be happening tonight. So he tries to focus on what _is_ happening instead. What's happening is Hannibal's pelvis pushing against him and Will can feel hard flesh against his ass. He knows Hannibal is fucking hard too. 

He's called captivating. Thrilling. Made to be spoiled? 

"Fuck, I want you, I want _this_ ," Will stammers out. 

To ground himself, he struggles against the bonds on his wrist. He first pushes down into the mattress again and then bucks up against Hannibal. It's not enough, but he knows it's all he's getting. 

"This isn't like me," Will then grits out. "I don't often bottom, I don't usually want to, but I would-I would for you..." He trails off, taking a large breath of air in. "Do you want me to come? Can I?" Will doesn't know if he _can_ like this, but he doesn't know what else to do other than ask if it's allowed.

* * *

The danger is that Hannibal might come to expect this, to chase this image until he's worn it out and it's broken under him. He's not found anyone this captivating in a long time, particularly not someone who speaks of need and submission and a desire to be devoured. 

The words still trail over Hannibal's skin like a frisson of energy, something electric and crackling, and he knows that his control is not endless. Will has already compromised him significantly even in this small exchange. This has gone beyond need and sex and has begun to stray into instinct and expectation, and the desire to _have_ this man (in all ways, not merely sexual) is difficult to ignore.

So he doesn't. Like this, with Will squirming against the bed, smelling of arousal and desperation, with Hannibal aware of his own physical arousal, Hannibal presses him down harder against the mattress, hard enough that Will wouldn't be able to pull away even if he needed to. It's likely he doesn't understand the very real danger he could be in like this, but that's part of the thrill. What would he do if he knew who he really had pinning him down? How might Will respond to the truth? Beautifully, Hannibal is sure, whether that be in arousal at the power or horror at the reality.

Hannibal drinks down the whine that escapes from Will's throat and when Will squirms against the bed and admits that he wants Hannibal - that he almost never gives his body to another like this, but that he would for Hannibal - the resulting shock of arousal is captivating. 

Hannibal's answer is not a moan or groan, but rather a breath, something thin and barely contained that should speak for itself. He bends down and leans in close to Will's ear, then turns his head and instead presses his nose to Will's hair, drawing in a slow breath as his fingers skate down over Will's clavicle, then move to his throat almost teasingly. 

He could draw this out more. There is a part of him that wishes to leave Will unfulfilled merely to see him squirm his discomfort in their office when they next meet, but he wishes to foster this budding relationship in a way that won't terrify Will away. Coaxing a man like Will into his grasp is more thrilling than trapping him. So when Hannibal leans down and his lips finally press against the side of Will's neck in a blatant kiss, he knows precisely what he's doing.

"You're asking me?" Hannibal asks, his voice low and pleased. "And you would hold yourself back if I denied you, wouldn't you. You'd sit through your discomfort even after I left, if I told you that you weren't allowed to come until I saw you next." 

Hannibal trails off and wets his lips, not expecting an answer. He rushes on before Will can, and his voice lowers even more, until it's a purposefully-sultry sound, a near-purr of promise. 

"You would sit across from me and carry on conversation as normal when all you'd be able to think about is that you'd done as I asked. That you would even _suggest_ that now is thrilling, Will. And so, _so_ very pleasing. You've been good for me tonight. You've eaten. You've given me the pleasure of seeing you. You've let me touch you. You've gifted me your control and trusted me with it..."

Hannibal bends down again, and this time when he kisses Will's neck, it's with a scrape of teeth. His hands slide down and his thumbs drag slow and rough over Will's nipples before he pinches both of them. 

"Yes, Will. I want you to come for me."

* * *

There is a freedom is letting go, in handing his control over to Hannibal. Pinned to the bed by Hannibal's body, his wrists bound by Hannibal's tie, he's effectively at Hannibal's mercy here. It's not like his Ripper dream, though. Instead of tools being stabbed into him, it's a warm and toned body and each point of connection feels divine and sparks sensation. He still has his kidney, he's not going to _really_ be devoured. Still, Will's mind is unhelpfully trying to bring up rather grotesque images of Hannibal strangling him. He's seen far too many crime scenes with victims tied up, and yet he knows he isn't about to be turned off. Hannibal has been honest with him. He's not anyone to fear. This isn't going to turn into some sex-play gone wrong. 

This is empowering. Will can tell that Hannibal is into this - into _him_ \- and it only encourages Will to continue on. To ask. So, Will is going to give in and indulge and maybe he's debasing himself, maybe he'll look back at this and be embarrassed, but he isn't right now. 

When Hannibal's fingers glide over his neck, Will tries to push into the touch, desperate and hungry for more skin-on-skin contact. The touch is fleeting, however (like most of the non-massage touch has been). A moment passes and then lips are pressed to his neck and it only serves to remind Will that they _still_ haven't had a real kiss and he'd like to change that, he really would.

Hannibal's words and tone are a vocal tease that is hard to bear. He already has been denied once by Hannibal before. They both know this. Hannibal had implied for him to not touch himself during their phone call and Will had complied. They hadn't even been in a relationship (but are they _now_?). 

Hannibal goes further, posing a possible scenario: that Will wouldn't touch himself because Hannibal would tell him not to - to not come until he saw him next, that he'd sit in his fucking office across from Hannibal, talking and focusing on it. It's a confusing mix of arousal and embarrassment that war inside. Will can see himself going along with it. He'd rather get off _now,_ but fuck, Hannibal telling him that he's been good is a warm lick of pleasure and Will is sure he'd get praise in that scenario too. (He's never needed it, never craved it, but then Hannibal had entered into the equation.)

Hannibal considers his control and trust as a gift. It's a bit of a strange thought because Hannibal had been talking about spoiling _him_ and that usually involved gifts. Maybe this is a way he can give something back to Hannibal. Teeth scrape along his neck and Will is panting like some dog, feeling frustration and arousal and need like never before. When his nipples are pinched, the contrasting sharpness has Will crying out.

But then he's focusing on the fucking _permission_ that's given to him. 

"Fuck, okay," Will grits out. 

He's trying to think of the logistics of how he's going to be able to get off when he can't exactly move well. He'll have to make the best of it. He ruts into the mattress as quick as he can. 

"You bring this out of me, this side... This desperation. And I think that I like it."

* * *

Will has bent for him so well this evening, and not just physically. Allowing Hannibal into his space, allowing Hannibal to feed him, to care for his dogs, to wander through his home, to _touch_ him... There has been no mistake in Hannibal's mind that Will Graham is a proud man despite his eccentricities. He'd not allow this of just anyone. Will had said as much, or at least implied it. He'd said he usually topped, that he enjoyed that control but that he'd give it to Hannibal were he to want it - and he does. Will has been open and honest, baring his soul (ironically enough) to a man he trusts, and the mix of power and pride and pleasure that Hannibal feels is buzzing strongly at his core.

He pinches Will's nipples and Will cries out so beautifully for him, the sound sharp and enough to almost rouse his dogs. Hannibal watches, silently pleased, and when Will registers his permission, registers the fact that Hannibal _wants_ him to come, the rough, gravel-over-glass curse that he lets out is nothing short of thrilling. Hannibal feels the flexion in Will's muscles, feels the desperation. A part of him wants to restrain Will further, to see what he'd do. But there's that line lingering still. That line that he can't cross without fear of pushing too far.

(He _will_ push. He will. He'll find something to try in time.)

"There is something freeing in being allowed to be selfish, to be desperate," Hannibal says, his voice warm against the sweaty skin of Will's nape. 

His stubble drags over the sensitized skin, and Hannibal's fingers twist, pinching harder, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to hurt _too much_. 

"Society demands complacency. Modesty. Humility. Yet if we are not given an outlet, the denial can build up in the system and result in emotional toxicity. I _want_ you to indulge. I _want_ you to be selfish... Here."

Hannibal makes the decision on a whim. One moment his weight is pressing Will into the bed, keeping him still, stalling all of his movement. The next, Hannibal braces his knees upon the bed and leans up, exerting pressure, tightening and then releasing muscles. The result is the equivalency of Hannibal rolling his hips, thrusting against Will's ass. He's not getting much stimulation out of it himself, but he isn't looking to. This motion is immediately _just_ for Will. Hannibal's breath quickens, his eyes sliding closed, and he braces himself as he moves, miming - while fully clothed - what he intends to do to Will one day. 

"Let me do this for you."

* * *

He wants this. More than anything, Will wants this. In comparison, his desire for Alana Bloom seems paltry now. A measly boyish crush. He's never experienced the level of desire or infatuation like he's feeling now. (Yes, it's probably unhealthy. No, he doesn't care.) 

It threatens to burn him up. Consuming like a wildfire and yet he knows he isn't declaring a state of emergency. Will is strung out, a junkie for Hannibal Lecter's touch and attention, the only doctor Will wants to see is the one who's infected him.

Christ, now he's imagining Hannibal is some white doctor's coat. The coolness of the stethoscope sliding over his chest and then his back. ' _Take a deep breath._ ' Hannibal observing his breathing, taking his pulse... No. He doesn't need a doctor/medical kink. He's never had one before. But gloved hands... Hannibal's hands could have saved her, held right, stopped the arterial--

No. Stop thinking about it. Stop.

Hannibal speaking helps focus Will. It draws him back. Slight stubble scratches against his neck, causing him to twitch, but then fingers once again pinch his nipples - harder this time - and Will’s bitten off curse is cut off by Hannibal continuing to talk. Talking about society's demands - complacency, modesty - it's a little difficult to focus because Will is so hard and he just wants to get off--

_'I **want** you to indulge. I **want** you to be selfish... Here.'_

Hannibal could be a snake charmer because right now Will is fucking entranced. He's broken out of the trance when Hannibal grinds into his ass. It's a blatant display of what they'd been previously talking about - Hannibal fucking him. Will struggles against the tie binding him, his hands having a mind of their own and wanting to reach out, to _do_ something - anything - but he's unable to. All he can do is lie there and take it. 

It's actually unbelievably hot. As Hannibal's hips (and erection) roll into him, it gives Will a little momentum. He can't help _but_ think of Hannibal fucking him one day. Will suddenly is a lot closer and he does let Hannibal have his way. He gives up struggling and relaxes as much as he can. Each pointed thrust gives him a little bit of friction. Will is breathing harshly, his ass pushing back into hardness, encouraging.

He's honestly surprised when he comes. It sneaks up on him and Will cries out from the sudden jolt of pleasure that overtakes him. He jerks, feeling warmth and wetness as his cock pulses. He's gasping out Hannibal's name almost as if in disbelief that he'd been able to come.

* * *

Will has never allowed himself to be selfish like this before. In truth, few have. Societal expectations stress _mutual_ satisfaction, stress the merits of being a good lover before being selfish. When Hannibal does indulge, he does the same thing, but not out of any true desire to meet another's expectations (though it does feel good to be worshiped). He does it because pleasure begets pleasure, because when he does bury himself in the body of another and _take_ , the clenching around him, the gasps and cries and enthusiasm affect _his_ enjoyment just as much. Yet like this, with Will pinned and essentially at his mercy, Hannibal doubts that Will has ever allowed himself to indulge, to be selfish. 

He feels the tension in Will's body, feels the small shivers and shudders. He feels the way Will's hips roll, seeking, desperate, just as he feels the way Will's arms try to struggle to grab, but Hannibal has not been restraining people for a measly few months. He's been doing it for decades in one way or another. He can tie intricate knotwork. Perhaps one day he will, but not now. For now, he throws his focus into what he will one day do to this man, into each slow, pointed roll of his hips. He does feel the flicker of desire, and undoubtedly he _could_ find his own pleasure like this, but what point would that make? That Hannibal is only willing to put in the effort when he _also_ gets to come. 

That's not what he wants. He wants Will Graham so enamored, so wrapped around his finger, so deep in the mire that he'll actively resist the life preservers and ropes that his friends throw to him. He wants Will to breathe him in. He wants to see what makes this man tick.

Hannibal scents and feels Will's orgasm before it happens, and he doesn't let up. While he's not giving Will much friction (which is intentional) he doesn't stop, grinding Will's clothed cock down against the bed as he suddenly jerks and goes rigid, his voice calling out in a rough, beautifully shattered cry that sounds both pleasured and shocked. 

Hannibal hums a low, rough note under his breath and his hand slides up, his fingers spanning the length of Will's throat and holding him there as he shudders and gasps. He doesn't squeeze, but he does press hard enough to feel the thundering pulse under his fingers. He breathes Will in blatantly, then strokes his hand down his chest. He touches Will like it's all he desires, palm sliding over his chest, his arms, down his back, heightening the sensitivity and prolonging every fraction of a second he can.

When Will is finally done, Hannibal leans down. He kisses the swell of Will's shoulder, then drags the roughness of his stubble over Will's neck. 

"Good, Will. Very good," Hannibal murmurs, the words so low that they're almost indecipherable. "I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it..." Another kiss, this time just under Will's ear. 

"Breathe and relax. I'll not untie you until you ask me to."

* * *

He's honestly never gotten off like this before. Why would he have ever _chosen_ to partake in such a thing? To be clothed in his boxers, pinned to the bed, and his partner - a male - fully clothed grinding into him? Simulating fucking. There's no other way to look at it. He's always needed a hand or a mouth or a hole to get off. Will doesn't think that makes him abnormal either. _This_ , however?

He feels a little strange now. Different. Oddly detached from the situation and himself. His pleasure and orgasm are undoubtedly rapturous, and he hadn't missed the exciting thrill that came with Hannibal's hand around his throat (something to think on later). But now Will just feels stunned.

And slightly at a loss of what do. But Hannibal must know because touch is paid his way and it's both comforting and a distraction. There's kisses (and another reminder that _they_ haven't actually kissed), stubble dragged against him... And then a very low whisper of praise that has Will sluggishly blinking. He obviously likes it, but in some way it sounds like praise you'd give to a dog or child. 

Maybe he should be offended, but Will isn't. Maybe that's for later, with the possible resurgence of embarrassment or regret about this all. Well, whatever. For now, Will minds Hannibal's suggestion of relaxing and breathing. He closes his eyes, and considers whether or not he wants the restraint to be undone. 

Not yet. Instead, he struggles against the tie to remind himself of it. He likes it. He likes that Hannibal had been the one to do it. What else could Hannibal do...?

"I'm sure I already know the answer... But I could get you off if you want," Will offers, somewhat weakly pressing back into Hannibal. 

He closes his eyes, feeling his pulse and respirations come down. Hannibal is still on top of him and the compression is honestly nice.

* * *

There are a multitude of reactions possible after orgasm achieved like this. Hannibal isn't entirely certain which to expect in this scenario, but he cannot claim that he doesn't find Will's slow, steady return to himself engaging. He truly is proud of him for achieving what he had. Orgasm is typically such a physical achievement, but Hannibal enjoys testing the limits of psychological arousal. 

Will, it seems, is a prime candidate for it. That he'd been able to come with minimal sensation is one thing. That he'd needed the thought - the simulation - of Hannibal inside of him to come is so much more. It settles a low, deeply satisfied pleasure through Hannibal's body, his lips pulled into a slow smile as they press against Will's neck, his touch to Will's skin perfectly light and soothing.

Still, he doesn't do more than touch and praise at first, monitoring Will's careful return to himself slowly. He feels the tremors in Will's body, can physically _feel_ each aftershock. In truth, Hannibal feels a little affected by the sheer type of energy that Will is pumping out now. It's deep and rich and satisfied despite the hints of uncertainty and confusion. In ways, Will is stunned, and Hannibal can feel it when he slowly begins to tense, but Hannibal pretends to be oblivious to Will's slow realizations. Instead of immediately retreating and awkwardly explaining, he touches Will softly. His hands slide over Will's chest, pressing in and slowly massaging with each fingertip. He strokes up over the pulse in Will's throat again, then carefully cards his fingers back through Will's hair.

Hannibal delivers to him a symphony of touch and sensation. While Will's mind tries to decide whether or not to panic, Hannibal doesn't move. He doesn't withdraw his weight, doesn't take away the comforting press, and doesn't stop touching or nuzzling in against Will's skin. He makes a careful point not to smother Will with an overwhelming amount of sensation, but he keeps every touch light and careful, a slow, languid exploration, like Hannibal is gaining plenty of satisfaction simply from this freedom.

When Will finally speaks, Hannibal notes immediately that he doesn't ask to be untied. Humming a low note, Hannibal slides one hand up to the tie around Will's wrists. He carefully strokes the soft skin around the tie, praising with touch alone. 

He doesn't miss the offer, and in many ways, Hannibal _is_ tempted... but he has a different motivation for acting like this. He lets Will press back against him and he lets himself breathe out a soft note of pleasure. He doesn't deny his own arousal, doesn't ease away. But he does lean in and press a slow kiss to Will's nape, leaning in to press him to the bed fully, a warm, comforting weight upon Will's back. 

"Please do not think that I'm not tempted," he says softly, with just enough strain in his tone to make it clear that he _does_ desire this man. It's carefully constructed, but not all a farce. 

"Watching you, seeing what you were able to accomplish... was very enticing. But you have had a long, frustrating day at work. You have been away from home all day. This was not an attempt to press my advantage, nor was it an attempt to gain favor. This was simply my decision. My... belief that _someone_ should care about your health."

Hannibal leans in closer and breathes in the low, musky scent of sweat and sex. He thinks about how much better Will might smell after using his gift on the counter, though only as the notes will play off of his natural scent so beautifully. 

"Tonight is about _you_. Let me spoil you." 

* * *

His day had started out like complete shit and then that shit had just compounded. Until this. Until Hannibal. This is a rather fantastic way to end the day. Will hadn't been expecting anything of this nature to occur. Hannibal bringing him food, talking about his dogs, the massage... It had been really great. And then everything _else on_ top.

Will's not sure he even knows what _this_ qualifies as. A foray into light bondage, a stab at desperate depravity as he rutted into the mattress as Hannibal's cock pushed against his ass? But there's not any real shame here, embarrassment isn't heaping up. It is what it is. What's done is done. He'd enjoyed it. Hannibal had enjoyed it. Hannibal isn't judging him for it. Hannibal practically praised him, encouraging him to indulge and give in... The knowledge of that is a comfortable warmth within Will. It feels like a strength he could come to rely on.

There's always the chance that he could regret this, that doubtful "this is too good to be true" hiss in his head winning out. But Hannibal has continually proven him wrong. 

Will's not surprised that Hannibal technically turns him down. Will can still feel the evidence of Hannibal's arousal, can hear it... And yet Hannibal is putting _him_ first. His fucking health first. Sure, a part of him still wants to be incredulous that he's being told _no_ , but then he hears, ' _Tonight is about you. Let me spoil you.'_

Will sighs. Despite the slickness of come and his cooling sweat, he feels good. Bone tired, but in a _good_ way (for once). 

"I am, aren't I?" His lips quirk into a small, hidden smile. He closes his eyes. He breathes deep. Hannibal is all around him, filling every sense. 

"You make it easy to imagine myself allowing you to bring a knife to my throat," Will murmurs softly. 

He's not afraid of the darkness right now. The warmth and weight, the constriction. Hannibal is with him. 

"No, you'd use a scalpel, wouldn't you?" 

He remembers Hannibal having used a scalpel to sharpen pencils. Will can see Hannibal taking the blade to his skin, himself tied up but _willing_ and _trusting_. It's terrifying and exhilarating. It didn't even have to break the skin - but it _could_.

And Will knows Hannibal would be neat and tidy about it, so unlike the killer from earlier. 

* * *

Hannibal is half-expecting a protest. Will can be remarkably stubborn when the mood suits him, but Hannibal finds himself pleasantly surprised that instead of protesting, Will's muscles go lax underneath him. Hannibal looks down at him, his hands still stroking, his touch still gentle, and when Will's answer comes, Hannibal can hear the smile in his voice. He sounds lazy and relaxed, like the stains from the day have been washed away under Hannibal's hands, and the knowledge of how malleable Will's mind would be were he to stay is far more tempting than it should be. But while a lesser demon would exert his influence like this, Hannibal doesn't. Not completely. Instead he slides his fingers through Will's hair as Will speaks, and he's almost ready to half-whisper his suggestion for Will's coming dreams when the words stop him.

He stills quietly, both surprised and pleased by the dark, lazy cast to Will's words. Hannibal's hand slides down instead, his thumb and forefinger pressing against both lines of Will's pulse. He stops there, letting Will feel it, and his smile is pleasant when he dips his head to kiss Will's shoulder.

"I would. Scalpels afford more maneuverability and less chance for accidental injury." Hannibal noses in against the side of Will's neck, breathing him in. "If that is something you'd be interested in, it is a conversation I would ask you to sit on for later. Right now, I would like to get you cleaned up."

He doesn't rush. Honestly, he allows Will a long, comfortable rest under him before Hannibal finally, reluctantly reaches up to unbind Will's wrists, at Will’s request. He leaves the tie on the bed, rubbing the barely-pink lines of indentation on Will's wrists until Will seems even more relaxed. Then he slowly gets up, keeping Will close as he ushers him to the bathroom in order to clean up. 

It's such a quick affair and Will looks so pleasantly relaxed and tired that he doubts Will is going to remember much of this in the morning. Hannibal still takes great care to help him clean himself and change his boxers. He doesn't look any more than he must, and when Will is loose and pliant under his hands, Hannibal guides him back into the living room, helps him with his dogs, and then lays Will back down on his bed. And though Hannibal believes that Will is too tired to remember the next morning, he does linger next to him. And, at Will's slightly-slurred prompting, Hannibal presses against him and touches him much as he had been before.

He moves only when Will is asleep, and even then, he's careful about it. Hannibal snaps his fingers, and when only the dogs look up, he nods to himself and then slowly draws away. He leaves his tie there for Will, aware that it might offer him a little more comfort in the morning - a souvenir of comfort - and then Hannibal walks to the kitchen once more. 

He retrieves the wrapped bottle of cologne and sets it quietly on Will's side-table by the bed, then gathers his residual belongings and slips his jacket on. Hannibal casts one look back at Will and then reaches out with his influence, wrapping dark fingers around Will's mind, but to offer him a _pleasant_ suggestion at dreams. He wants his hooks in deep, wants to make Will associate him with positive sensations and emotions and experiences. With that done, Hannibal silently locks up the house and turns, walking back to his car.

He doesn't stop thinking about Will once on the way back home, and it takes him quite a bit longer to physically calm himself back down. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story, please consider leaving a kudo, a comment and reblogging it on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/168449459078/but-not-everyone-prefers-the-light-rating)! Thanks.  
> Playlist can be found [here](https://8tracks.com/merrythought/but-not-everyone-prefers-the-light)


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